


Death of a Red Templar

by Luaithe



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Mage-Templar War, Red Lyrium, Red Templars, Templars (Dragon Age)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2019-05-05
Packaged: 2019-09-15 05:12:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 66,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16927137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luaithe/pseuds/Luaithe
Summary: The final months of a Red Templar in Suledin Keep.





	1. End and Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> In which I make the mistake of trying to make Red Templars sympathetic characters.
> 
> I’d been tempted to write a canon-compliant (I hope) red templar short(ish) story for a while, but wasn't sure where to go with it. Then someone mentioned the perfect starting point. So, once again, I need to thank a reader’s comment for planting the seed of a story. Thanks dalish-ish!

When Nicolas was a recruit, a mere two years before his initiation, he had broken his femur. He had broken other bones, before years of experience had turned boyish enthusiasm into hardened competence. It was rare to find a recruit who hadn’t broken something, even if it was as insignificant as a broken toe. Templar training was difficult, and even the most experienced recruits could make a simple miscalculation. They had to accept the fate the Maker had given them and learn from their mistakes.

But a broken femur was different. Unless they were located in or near a Circle, Templar training facilities received visits from mages only rarely, as visiting instructors. Those that did visit were more likely to be combat and offensive experts than healers. Healing naturally was the only option, but a potentially crippled Templar recruit was worthless to the Order. Despite the investment of twelve years instruction in a Templar monastery, his training officers had been on the verge of transferring him to the Chantry, much the same as recruits who consistently failed to meet the standards of the punishing training regime.

It wouldn’t have been a dishonour, they had tried to reassure him. He could return to the Order as an affirmed lay Brother once he completed his education. Or he could become a fully ordained Brother, serving the Maker through the Chantry rather than as a knight of the Templar Order. And even if he decided not to follow the Maker’s path, he would have the benefit of years of Chantry education to see him to success. Certainly a better life than he might have received as the youngest child of struggling artisans.

But it didn’t matter what the training officers said. He had spent his entire living memory training to serve as a Templar. Losing the chance after so many years of hard work, with the end in sight, would have been devastating.

He had recovered with no complications, but it had taken years to overcome the fear of a similar injury crippling him for good. Now, lying on the icy flagstones of a ruined keep in a remote corner of Orlais, he wasn’t quite sure why it had mattered so much to him.

Fate likely would have been kinder if he had taken the option to leave when it had been offered to him ten years ago. Perhaps his life would have followed a better path. Perhaps he wouldn’t have seen friends killed, or worse, corrupted until it was impossible to recognise them. Perhaps he wouldn’t have blindly followed one lie after another, ignoring the corruption he saw in the belief that they were on a ‘righteous path’.

It would have been easier to identify which major bones _weren_ _’t_ broken than it would have been to identify which ones were. Combat training gave a Templar the knowledge to identify and disable the most critical limbs. Red lyrium gave them the strength to snap bones like kindling. He just hadn’t expected to be the target for that kind of brutal attention.

His own list of injuries could have served well as a textbook case of how to cripple an opponent without actually killing them. At least not immediately. Recruits would inspect the diagram and be taught a more efficient method, or be instructed on how to avoid the same fate themselves. Without the red lyrium being pumped around his own body, he might well have been screaming in agony. There were certainly internal injuries to accompany the more obvious ones. But for those who had been taking red lyrium for so many months, pain was a familiar friend. Even now that he finally accepted how corrupt they had become, it was an almost impossible task to truly forsake the strength and power that it offered.

Oddly, he was actually rather glad for the long list of broken bones. They were a cleaner pain than the throbbing waves that rippled out from his heart. He could feel every point where red lyrium was crystallising as a sharper note amongst the more general agony. Each point pulsed in time with the haunting siren melody of the red lyrium flowing through his veins, pumped around by the racing beat of his heart. He could feel the lyrium hardening in a layer beneath his skin, stiffening his limbs and consuming his internal organs to feed some unfathomable plan.

Without Imshael’s intervention, it would probably kill him. Not quite soon enough to give him a quick end, more’s the pity. Imshael didn’t seem the forgiving type. Under his attention, these crippling injuries would simply speed him along the path of corruption. Red lyrium would leave him nothing but a crystal shell in Templar armour.

Submit and live. Defy and be consumed. An offer like that was a rather obvious sign that their supposed ally was a demon, in hindsight. You would have thought a keep full of trained templars would have noticed a demon of all things. Maybe the senior officers just hadn’t cared. After all, a Templar must be willing and able to pay any price to serve the greater good. He wondered if anyone could pinpoint precisely when the Maker’s greater good had become the Elder One’s greater good.

The sound of combat was closer now. It dropped off abruptly and Imshael’s silken voice drifted to where Nicolas lay. The conversation ended quickly with a familiar shriek. Only the rawest templar initiates would fail to recognise the sound of an enraged demon. Nicolas bared his teeth in a bloody smile. The Inquisition had seen through the demon far more quickly than the wilfully blind templars of Suledin Keep.

With a breathless gasp of pain, he heaved himself up on one elbow, legs a dead weight in front of him, and hunted about for his sword. The Inquisition might save him from the demon, but they never showed mercy to red templars. They always killed them, never captured, regardless of seniority. He didn’t especially think he deserved another chance at life, but he didn’t intend to let them execute him either.

His stiffening limbs threw out a few sharp fragments of pain as he moved, but he managed to push himself up far enough to see the weapon. It lay where it had been tossed, just beyond the keep’s flagpole. It was still stained with blood from where he had managed a strike on his attacker, after he had realised that Imshael had taken anything that was left of his friend’s mind. It was too little, too late. A simple corrupt templar didn’t stand a chance against someone that far gone to red lyrium.

With a despondent sigh, he leaned back. The blade was too far away for him to reach. A templar lived and died by the sword. Even a crippled one was expected to face the Maker with their blade by their side, a pale echo of the Sword of Mercy that had saved Andraste from the flames. He supposed a corrupt templar wasn’t especially worthy of the redemption offered by that symbol, but it would have been comforting to believe he was.

 

* * *

 

**Eight Months Earlier**

 

Some Circles collapsed in blood and chaos. Every templar feared that what had happened at Kirkwall or the White Spire might happen in their own Circles.

Others hung on to some approximation of normality, if there even was such a thing any more. Circles like Ostwick were fortunate enough to have avoided the worst of the chaos. Loyalists and isolationists. Those looking to avoid all-out war. Those who still believed they could make something of their life in a Circle.

Others still dissolved without much ceremony, templars and mages gradually trickling away until their Circles were hardly worth the name.

Minor Circles like Ghislain counted amongst that final group. The Ghislain Circle didn’t have the significance of the White Spire, stronghold of the Templar Order and Knight-Vigilant, repository for the phylacteries of every First Enchanter in Thedas. And tipping point in the looming war between Mages and Templars. Nor did it have the aristocratic associations of the Montsimmard Circle.

The city of Ghislain was known for its verdant orchards and its remoteness. The mages sent to its Circle weren’t the brightest minds or those with the most influential families. They were simply people with a gift or a curse — depending on the mindset — who wanted to live their lives in comfort and safety. The mages of Ghislain had never given their Templar watchers the vaguest reason for suspicion.

So when the Nevarran Accord was declared null and void, the Circle’s Knight-Commander didn’t stop those who wanted to leave. If his second-in-command took issue with that decision, the chain of command didn’t allow him to do more than complain. Even then, the only ones who heard were the uncaring bartenders of various taverns.

For all the bitterness, his complaints weren’t truly directed at his Knight-Commander’s decision. Like every other Templar in Thedas, he had trained to be a defender against magic. He had worked for most of his life to tend a Circle and keep magic safely contained behind its walls. The situation in Thedas was precisely the kind of scenario of which a Templar’s nightmares were made. Face one too many abominations, and you couldn’t help but see them lurking behind every mage.

Duty could be interpreted in hundreds of ways. The lucky few had a choice of where it might take them. The rest took the path handed to them by fate.

* * *

Nicholas shifted on his feet and scanned the low-ceilinged hall of the derelict waystation. They had greeted the sight of the squat outline of the abandoned building on the horizon with muted relief. It would simply be one more stop on the interminable journey. Officers rarely bothered to give the rank and file a detailed outline of their plans. Knights-Templar simply did what they were told, when they were told. But the familiar glitter of bright templar regalia in the noon sunshine nearly broke the discipline of their column. It had taken close to three weeks of marching before the templars from Ghislain caught sight of a single friendly face.

Not too long ago, when the Nevarran Accord still held firm and the Templar Order still deferred to the Chantry’s authority, a travelling force of templars would have been able to seek shelter at any Chantry outpost in Thedas. When they travelled now, they didn’t even stop to speak to those Chantry folk who assumed they could forget the fact that the Order no longer answered to them.

In a time when the Order had fractured into shards, it was certainly a pleasure to know that the neatly presented templars who had turned out to welcome them to this remote waystation were allies. These were the promised reinforcements from the White Spire in nearby Val Royeaux, sent by the Lord Seeker to join those from Ghislain to complete whatever mysterious task they had been given. If nothing else, these strange times were uniting templars who had once been hundreds of miles distant from each other. Ghislain. A few from Cumberland and Perendale. Even a handful from now-notorious Kirkwall. And latest of all, the White Spire itself.

Finally, with the addition of so many new templars, they might be given some explanation of what they were doing so far from their Circles and garrisons. Where most loyal templars had been required to follow the Lord Seeker’s orders and withdraw to Val Royeaux, Nicolas and his fellow templars had marched across most of Orlais on some mysterious assignment.

He and the rest of his fellow Knights-Templar waited with muted eagerness in the refreshingly cool shade of the waystation. All the officers, junior and senior, were attending a briefing from Knight-Captain Fornier, whilst the Knights-Templar mustered in the main hall. He could only hope that the rest of them would finally receive some answers. Unfortunately, it wasn’t beyond belief to imagine that the rank and file would be left in the dark until the last moment.

With nothing better to do, he studied the ranks arrayed around him. Cartier stood to his left, standing to perfect attention even without their Knight-Corporal to observe. Sybelle slumped in the next block, muffling a yawn behind her hand. It had been a long and tiring march. The White Spire additions were an unfamiliar group, but in standard Orlesian templar armour, the only way they could be distinguished from the Ghislain templars was by their pristine and glittering attire, free of three weeks’ road dust. The few foreign templars stood out amongst that uniform group in the subtle differences of robe colour and armour. Bright or dull. Sword of Mercy point up or down. Three flames or four. But all brother and sister templars.

The muffled whispering of Knights-Templar died down to total silence as Knight-Captain Fornier and the officers re-entered the hall. Nicolas tensed in anticipation as they filed into place in front of their respective commands. A stern glance from his own Knight-Corporal settled the final mutters of conversation amongst the rest of his squad.

Nicolas’s eyes widened in surprise and he almost lost his posture of attention as he spotted a familiar face settling himself in the neat ranks behind the White Spire Knight-Lieutenant. Cartier flicked a sidelong disapproving glance at Nicolas’ break in discipline. Nicolas ignored him, attempting to shift without actually moving to find a clearer view between the templars mustered in front of him. The other templar caught sight of him at almost the precise moment that Nicolas did. His eyebrows rose, although his posture of attention remained perfect.

The other templar might be wearing a Knight-Corporal’s armour now, but there was no mistaking that face, even matured as it was. Nicolas, Sybelle and Etien had been nearly inseparable during their days as young recruits. They had learned to look out for one another as children in the recruit cohorts and continued to do so right until they swore their vows as fully ordained templars. But Etien had always been the most skilled of the trio. Sybelle and Nicolas — proficient enough to be assigned to a Circle but not outstanding — had found themselves assigned to the minor Circle in Ghislain. Etien had received one of the most prestigious postings to the White Spire in Val Royeaux. It had been years since they had last spoken.

His focus snapped back to Knight-Captain Fornier as he stepped up to place himself in front of the mustered ranks. The Knight-Captain clasped his hands behind his back and waited a moment, as if the hall wasn’t already perfectly silent.

“The Templar Order is faced with a tragedy beyond anything faced in our entire history,” he announced solemnly. “The Knight-Vigilant is missing. Near every Knight-Commander in Thedas is dead, along with countless others.”

He paused and dipped his head in respectful silence. There was a rustle of movement as every templar followed suit. The upper command structure of the Templar Order had been decimated by the explosion at the conclave. Their own Knight-Commander had been lost along with quite possibly every other Ghislain templar who had accompanied him to the conclave. The same story could be told by nearly every Circle and garrison in Thedas.

“It is a tragedy,” he repeated vehemently after the moment’s silence. “But we will not allow ourselves to be crippled by the loss of so many. Some of you have gathered a little from General Samson himself, but it bears repeating, for those who have now joined us from the White Spire if nothing else. We are faced with heresy of a far more insidious kind than that espoused by the Imperial Chantry. Following the tragedy at the conclave, the Inquisition was reformed by a Seeker of Truth acting independently from the Chantry. Amongst their number, they count templars who chose to ignore the Lord Seeker and their duty.”

His expression turned dark. “But far worse, they have given the title ‘Herald of Andraste’ to someone bearing the mark of the very same foul magic that caused so many deaths at the conclave, as if Andraste would ever countenance such a thing. You all know someone who died there. The Divine herself was assassinated. Whilst we no longer hold with the Chantry’s direction, not one of us could fail to recognise the crime against the Maker and his Bride. If there is a more obvious sign of this Inquisition’s heresy, I cannot imagine it.”

He slammed a fist into his open palm, voice rising to ring from the rotting rafters. “Whilst much has changed, our duty remains constant, brothers and sisters. Fight against the dangers of magic. At any price. This Inquisition — heaping such praise upon someone corrupted by magic — _cannot_ be allowed to hold sway,” he growled. “Magic must serve man, not rule, and certainly not be allowed to cause such death and destruction without retribution. The Maker, in all his wisdom, has presented us with leaders who have given us a second chance. They will help us remove this heresy before it drives Thedas into the void. At the Lord Seeker’s behest, we now follow General Samson’s leadership. He in turn serves the Elder One, a far wiser head with far greater plans than any one of us could imagine.”

He exchanged a nod with the White Spire Knight-Lieutenant. “Others will join us, but we are the forerunners of a noble task. We are the Champions of the Just, and we will protect Thedas, as we always have. Any price is acceptable to achieve that goal. The Maker’s will is written in blood.” He smiled with grim satisfaction as he surveyed the perfectly disciplined ranks of templars. “Dismissed.”

Usually, a dismissal would have led to the ranks breaking almost immediately. But Knight-Captain Fornier’s impassioned address had them all stunned. In truth, what they had been told they were doing was no different to what the Templar Order had always done. But this time, it seemed that their opponent was a clearly defined entity rather than the shifting and mutable danger created by magic and those who wielded it. It sounded perilously close to a call for an Exalted March. It could well be one in all but name. With the Nevarran Accord void, they didn’t follow the Chantry’s requirements. The Templar Order was forging its own path.

“Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked,” Nicolas murmured thoughtfully to himself, drawing a wry glance from Cartier.

The Order had always favoured the Canticle of Benedictions as a statement of their calling. By naming them the Champions of the Just and reminding them that their blood was required to serve the Maker’s will, Knight-Captain Fornier was purposefully underscoring that familiar verse. Any price. It was a chilling thought, but they all accepted it as sworn templars.

If Knight-Captain Fornier was right, if the noble Inquisition had been resurrected as some tool of magic, it was a corruption against which they were bound to place themselves.

-

There was an element of excitement in the hall when Knight-Captain Fornier and the Knights-Lieutenant left. Without the senior officers to watch, the mustered templars felt free to break off into groups and make introductions to their White Spire brothers and sisters. To their mutual disappointment, the White Spire templars’ proximity to the Lord Seeker hadn’t given them any more information than the others had gathered. But there were still more than a few theories to be exchanged, filling the hall with the low buzz of enthusiastic speculation.

Nicolas managed to weave his way through the knots of templars until he caught up with Sybelle. She detached herself from her own clustered squad and joined him with a wave. They might have been assigned to different squads ever since they had joined the Ghislain Circle, but they had known each other almost their whole lives. He and Cartier had been paired together for most of Nicolas’ eight years in Ghislain, but their friendship could never be quite the same as the bonds forged by recruits who had grown up together. Those lasted a lifetime.

“Quite the goal the Order has been set,” she said pensively. “Although I still wonder precisely what _we_ _’re_ actually doing. The Inquisition is in some miserable Fereldan village, not the backwaters of Orlais.”

“I don’t suppose your Knight-Corporal is any more likely to give us the details than Knight-Corporal Laval?” Nicolas asked with a covert glance towards Sybelle’s Knight-Corporal. His own had followed the senior officers out of the hall almost as soon as he was able.

She raised an eyebrow. “Need you ask?” she replied dryly. She tilted her head up and peered down her nose at Nicolas. “The details are above simple Knights-Templar such as ourselves.”

Niolas barked out a short laugh. “I suppose I shouldn’t expect that to change simply because we’re no longer in a Circle.” He bounced up on his toes, peering over the heads of the other milling templars. “Perhaps this news will make up for the continuing mystery. There’s a familiar face in the White Spire group.”

“The White Spire? Who-” Sybelle’s eyes widened in sudden realisation. “Etien? Are you serious? It’s been years.” Her delighted smile faded and she gave Nicolas a concerned look. “We don’t have to speak to him if-”

“It’s Etien, Sybelle,” Nicolas cut her off with a warning frown. “We could hardly ignore him.”

He turned his back on her, preventing any further attempts at conversation, and forged his way through the crowds of templars. Even before Ghislain’s Circle had dissolved, it had never been as crowded as this in the templar barracks. There was something comforting about seeing so many Swords of Mercy after the number of distrustful faces on their march.

“Etien!” he called out, ignoring the heads that snapped about to look for the source of the low shout.

Etien turned around, a whole host of expressions flickering over his face as he spotted them. He made a short excuse to the woman beside him and strode through the crowd towards them, Knights-Templar moving aside for the Knight-Corporal. As he drew closer, it was obvious that the years had already begun to wear on that familiar face, far more than they had done for Nicolas or Sybelle. The White Spire couldn’t have been an easy place to serve in the past months.

Nicolas hustled up to meet Etien, a wide smile on his face. Sybelle cleared her throat significantly as she followed in his wake. Nicolas coughed and flushed red. It was hardly fitting for an initiated templar to act like a raw recruit. He brushed futility at his travel-stained armour and settled for resting his hand on the hilt of his sword.

“It’s been a while, Etien,” he managed to say.

Sybelle choked out something that sounded like an agreement. She raised an amused eyebrow at Nicolas.

A brief melancholy smile flickered over Etien’s face. “Eight years,” he confirmed.

“Ah.” Nicolas hunted for something else to say. It had been a long time. Maker knew how they had both changed in those years. His eyes settled on the Knight-Corporal’s armour his old friend now wore and he made an effort to reflect the proper deference. Definitely not raw recruits. “You were promoted, Ser.”

“Congratulations, Ser,” Sybelle added and saluted casually. “I’m not surprised that you were the first of us to receive a promotion.”

“I’ve known you both since I was eight. I don’t think we need to stand on ceremony with titles,” Etien replied with a dry chuckle. “The promotion was immediately before the troubles in the Circles started. I expect Knight-Corporal is as high as I will get after all that’s happened.”

Sybelle rolled her eyes. “Have pity on me and Nicolas. I doubt there’s even a junior officer rank in our futures now.”

Etien raised an incredulous eyebrow. “Was it likely before?” he asked dryly.

“Not really,” Sybelle replied grudgingly. “Maybe for Nicolas. He actually made a good Circle templar, if you can believe that.”

Etien’s gaze finally settled on Nicolas again with another ghost of a smile. “I never doubted it. And there might still be a chance for promotion under this mysterious General Samson.”

“The latest batch of promotions have gone to those that General Samson left with us from Kirkwall. And apparently more will be joining us later,” Sybelle replied. “But it’s possible. It all depends on what we’re doing out here.”

“Knight-Corporal Cime!” a voice called out.

Etien turned away and saluted the White Spire Knight-Lieutenant. “Ser?”

The Knight-Lieutenant’s eyes passed dismissively over Nicolas and Sybelle before fixing on Etien. “All junior officers are to muster outside for new assignments from Knight-Captain Fornier before our departure tomorrow. Unless you have pressing business with these Knights-Templar, I suggest you hurry.”

Etien saluted again. “Right away, Ser.”

He offered a quick apologetic look for Nicolas and Sybelle before smiling wryly at their formal salutes. Under the critical eye of a Knight-Lieutenant, they could do nothing less.

“I’ll find you both later,” he said quietly, and swept off in his Knight-Lieutenant’s wake.

Nicolas watched him leave, tracking him across the room and through crowds of milling Knights-Templar that parted and reformed around the two officers. Despite Sybelle’s comment, he had always been happy serving as a Knight-Templar. Even a junior officer held more authority than Nicolas wanted. But he knew the promotion couldn’t have gone to a more deserving templar.

He became aware of Sybelle’s grimace off to his side. He stopped her from speaking with a glare of his own. “What, Sybelle?” he snapped, good mood dimming slightly.

She sighed and raised her hands in surrender. “Nothing. Let’s find out where we’ll be billeted for the night.”

-

For all that it was a derelict and half-ruined building, it was surprising how well the hall of the waystation could emulate the mess hall of a Circle. Proof of that came with the handful of questioning looks as Etien walked down the makeshift mess tables for the rank and file templars. A Knight-Corporal never sat with Knights-Templar. But they quickly turned away from his sharp glare. Knights-Templar also never questioned their officers.

He settled himself next to Sybelle with a satisfied sigh and laid out his bowl and cutlery in front of him. Nicolas felt a sudden sense of displacement, as if the previous eight years had never occurred. The three of them had eaten together near every day for ten years at the Templar monastery in which they had been trained. Sadly there were far more responsibilities on all their heads now. The Order called for their unflinching service, as it always had. Lyrium helped, as it so often had over the past eight years, muting and blurring the nostalgia for those simpler days to something he could ignore.

He shook away the flurry of painful memories. Eight years was a long time, but it would be comforting to return to the ease of their old conversations.

“I thought Knights-Corporal were too important for lowly Knights-Templar,” he said with an echo of his old humour.

Etien rolled his eyes and smiled. “We have some catching up to do. I doubt there will be much chance on the road,” he stated as he dug into his meal. The fare was as simple as the food that Nicolas and Sybelle had been given, but after three weeks of travel, the Empress’ own dinner table couldn’t have been more appetising. “How was life in Ghislain?” Etien asked around a mouthful of food. “I never heard much from there, which is a good thing given recent events.”

“Ghislain was as peaceful as could be expected from a minor Circle.” Nicolas shuddered. “It sounds like the White Spire wasn’t as enviable a posting as it seemed at the time. Maker. The rebellion started there. I should probably be glad I was in Ghislain.”

Sybelle waved away the comment with an irritated growl. “I have had enough of discussing the war to last a lifetime. No one ever seems to speak of anything else.” She pushed aside her empty bowl and leaned conspiratorially towards Etien. “You always had news back when we were recruits, Etien.” She glanced significantly over at the senior officers’ table and back again. “So, where are our esteemed commanding officers taking us?”

Etien considered the question for a few moments before shrugging and setting down his spoon. “The information will be passed on when we depart tomorrow, so there’s little harm in telling you now.” He dropped his voice to a low whisper that barely carried across the table to Nicolas. “Emprise du Lion.”

Nicolas frowned. Whatever their task, it was important enough to pull together disparate fragments of what was left of loyal templars across Thedas. A region no one had even heard of didn’t seem to fit such a mobilisation. “I’ve never even heard of the place.”

“Neither had I,” Etien said with another shrug. “But perhaps this piece of information is connected.” He hesitated and pinned them both with a stern look befitting his officer rank, junior or otherwise. “Do not pass this information on.” He waited for their reluctant nods before continuing. “A new source of lyrium has been discovered. Knight-Captain Fornier is either keeping quiet on how that relates to our task, or he hasn’t yet received full orders.”

Nicolas cast a look over to Sybelle and narrowed his eyes. “Red lyrium?” he suggested quietly.

“Perhaps. It certainly couldn’t be normal lyrium,” she replied pensively. “That can only be found in the Deep Roads. Maker knows the Chantry would long since have had us secure the source otherwise.”

Etien looked startled. “You know about it already?” he asked incredulously. “I was told the information hadn’t been passed down to Knights-Templar yet.”

“Nicolas here conveniently overheard a conversation between General Samson and our Knight-Captain whilst he was on duty,” Sybelle replied with a wry smile.

“General Samson and the Kirkwall templars do seem to be our source of knowledge on this new form of lyrium.” Etien gestured towards the scattering of Kirkwall templars around the room, a troubled frown creasing his brow. “Unfortunately, they’re too senior for any of us to dare ask questions of them. But General Samson looked like a lyrium addict. These other templars he brought in from Kirkwall don’t look much better. If they were promoted as quickly as you say… It suggests they were given seniority to avoid scrutiny. It doesn’t bode well.”

Nicolas unthinkingly caught the gesturing hand and pushed it back towards the table. “Don’t draw attention,” he hissed, choosing to ignore Etien’s startled look of surprise. “We’re not supposed to know. Only officers use the new rations.”

“That part at least is true,” Etien replied with a slow nod, extracting his hand to toy with his spoon. “There’s a lot of secrecy on the subject, but I know rations will be cascaded down the ranks over time.”

Nicolas and Sybelle exchanged a long-suffering look. It was hardly a surprise to hear that Knights-Templar were considered the lowest priority. In some ways, their lack of importance had been an advantage. Proportionally, far fewer Knights-Templar had died at the conclave, considered too unimportant to attend. Etien, on the other hand, was a Knight-Corporal. Perhaps just senior enough that he had seen something or heard more than just rumours.

“Knight-Lieutenant Erasmus may be on new rations,” Etien said, pre-empting the question he had to guess would be coming. “But I and my fellow Knights-Corporal from the White Spire are not. Yet. It appears that the supply is limited.”

“If it’s as difficult to obtain as normal lyrium, I’m not surprised.” Nicolas grimaced in distaste. He set his meal aside, appetite suddenly gone. Now it simply reminded him what he was missing. “I have no idea how it is in the White Spire, but to say our lyrium supply was limited would be an understatement. We’ve been on half rations at best since the split.”

Sybelle kneaded her temples. They’d all had mild headaches for so long that it seemed a normal state of affairs. Ghislain was a small Circle that had relied primarily on the Chantry’s indifferent attentions to sustain it. Without the Chantry’s backing and with the Circle dissolved, they had been on the edge of total collapse. General Samson’s arrival had been welcomed with open arms.

“Maker knows it has been trying. Not what we expected when we took our first draught, to say the least,” she muttered. “I’m sure you’ve seen it before, Etien. Knight-Captain Fornier had to leave many of the older templars behind.”

Etien winced in sympathy. His hand twitched as if he had meant to reach out. “The White Spire obviously has, or at least had, a large treasury,” he admitted quietly, offering Nicolas and Sybelle sympathetic looks instead. “Enough to maintain full rations for us all. But that is draining quickly with so many templars having answered the Lord Seeker’s call to join him in Val Royeaux. Negotiating our own lyrium contracts with Orzammar after the split from the Chantry was no easy task.”

“But if we could secure a source of our own…” Sybelle mused.

“Total independence,” Etien confirmed with a firm nod. “I can’t imagine anything more valuable.”

Nicolas leaned back and narrowed his eyes, mind churning with sudden possibilities. “Now _that_ would be a task to justify this mobilisation.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick note: Rather than my usual style, this is very much an episodic/vignette type of fic. Hopefully the story remains clear even so.


	2. Sahrnia

Mistress Poulin, noble landowner of the village of Sahrnia and its surrounds, had done her best to project an image of prosperity for her unexpected Templar visitors, throwing open the shutters to brighten her study despite the early spring chill in the air. From afar, the small estate had seemed prosperous, vibrantly painted walls visible all the way from their distant concealed camp in the highlands. It likely had been not too long ago. But from this close, it was clear how shallow an illusion that had been. The cracked plasterwork and weed-strewn gardens were blatantly obvious. They might have been travelling for weeks, but their bright Templar regalia was a stark contrast to the tired estate.

Aside from an elderly manservant to answer the door, there had been no servants as they had been led to the noblewoman’s study. He had gaped at Knight-Captain Fornier and the polished squad of templars behind him for near enough an entire minute before he had mustered up the ability to haltingly welcome them. The Knight-Captain’s stern regard and the blank steel helms behind him likely hadn’t been much help in that respect. It seemed likely that Sahrnia and perhaps even the entirety of the remote Emprise du Lion hadn’t seen such a flagrant display of strength since the civil war in Orlais had begun.

But perhaps most telling of all, in run-down Sahrnia, even this minor noblewoman bared her face to the world. No Orlesian noble in any major city would be caught dead without a mask, however minor they were, and even in the privacy of their own homes. Perhaps she simply didn’t see the need. Orlesians sworn to the Maker’s service didn’t wear masks. It might have simply been a statement of her piety. But even a templar raised by the Order and with a lifetime in the seclusion of a Circle knew how important the custom was in Orlais.

To an Orlesian, it was a subtle and yet the most obvious indicator that the region was struggling to survive. Far more so than the crumbling walls of the town outside and fading paint on the walls. If a noble was struggling, the small town had to be in a far worse state.

Most of Knight-Captain Fornier’s escort waited patiently in the noblewoman’s entrance hall, still enough along the walls that they could easily have passed for decorative suits of armour. Nicolas and Cartier had received the dubious honour of acting as close escort to the Knight-Captain. It meant they were expected to throw themselves in front of any immediate danger to him. It also meant they might have a little more chance to observe than the full escort.

Nicolas didn’t care to question why the Knight-Captain had chosen Knight-Lieutenant Erasmus and Knight-Lieutenant Connall — one of General Samson’s hand-picked promotions from Kirkwall — to accompany him. The new arrivals were quickly taking the place of those from Ghislain for all but the most mundane duties. Perhaps because they had been given the benefit of speaking directly with General Samson or the Lord Seeker himself.

Surprise was plain on the noblewoman’s face as they were announced at the door to her study. “Templars in Sahrnia?” she exclaimed quietly. She brushed at her skirts and gestured to welcome Knight-Captain Fornier into her study. “Please, let us speak.”

Knight-Captain Fornier dipped his head and strode forwards, armoured footsteps heavy on the polished tiles in comparison to her light tread. “My thanks, Mistress Poulin.”

Nicolas and Cartier stepped to either side of the door, preparing to station themselves outside until the meeting was complete. Knight-Captain Fornier paused inside the doorway as the Knight-Lieutenants entered ahead of him and gave them a measuring look.

“Wait inside, Ser Agrican, Ser Tousignant,” he ordered.

The noblewoman didn’t bat an eyelid, but Nicolas knew how rare it was for Knights-Templar to be given leave to observe such meetings. The full helm prevented him from reading Cartier’s expression, but he could guess his partner would have had the same look of surprise.

He followed close on the Knight-Captain’s heels and planted himself at attention to one side of the study’s door, one hand placed on the hilt of his sword, the other folded behind his back. He highly doubted Knight-Captain Fornier was particularly concerned about the dangers she might pose to them, especially with two Knights-Lieutenant accompanying him already, but apostates were always a possibility, especially in an isolated region with little to no Templar presence. Presumably the town had a chantry and templars to guard it — assuming they hadn’t left following the voiding of the Nevarran Accord — but he highly doubted it was more than one Knight-Corporal and a bare handful of Knights-Templar. It was far easier for an apostate to conceal themselves out here than it was in a city like Ghislain or Val Royeaux.

Regardless, Nicolas was hardly going to complain. They had camped just within the region for days as scouts completed a thorough survey of the area and Saharnia’s immediate surrounds. Even with what little Etien had been willing to pass on, Nicolas was curious to discover precisely what it was they were doing in this remote and seemingly unimportant corner of Orlais.

The worn furnishings and smell of cheap oil from the lantern on the noblewoman’s desk as they entered were yet another marker of financial difficulties. There were lighter sections on the walls where paintings might once have hung. If the Knight-Captain suspected she was an apostate, she certainly wasn’t benefiting in any way from magic.

Knight-Captain Fornier was all restless energy as the noblewoman settled in a wing-backed seat, a faded and worn display of what once would have been wealth. He paced in front of her desk rather than accepting the proffered seat, gaze taking in the details of the study. The noblewoman offered him a tentatively welcoming smile and shuffled a few letters away. From her distaste as she handled them, Nicolas would guess they had been letters of credit.

“Welcome to Sahrnia,” she said with a nod that took in all the templars in the room. It seemed polite enough, but Nicolas recognised the same poorly-concealed touch of wariness he had occasionally seen in Ghislain’s mages in the months before the collapse of the Circles. Even the most faithful would be understandably cautious around so much templar steel in a relatively small room. “Although I must say, I am surprised to see templars in the region. I was led to believe you had all been called to Val Royeaux.”

The Knight-Captain stilled himself and rested his arms on the back of the chair set in front of her desk. “We had, Mistress Poulin,” the Knight-Captain replied with an easy smile. “I received orders to make my way to the region.”

She cocked her head. “Might I ask why?”

“I’m sure you’ve heard that the Templar Order split from the Chantry in response to their abuse of our service.” Fornier clasped his hands and leaned forwards conspiratorially. “I took the liberty of scouting out the region on our arrival. There is a fine fortress here, is there not?”

“You mean Suledin Keep, I presume,” she answered with a note of curiosity. “An ancient elven fortress. It has been abandoned for Ages.”

“Precisely!” Fornier replied cheerfully. “It seems an ideal location to establish ourselves as a separate entity from the Chantry. I imagine you can sympathise with our plight, given how a remote region such as this must have been so neglected by the Chantry. I have no doubt you would value the protection the Order can offer.”

Mistress Poulin looked torn between surprise and caution. “I am a loyal Andrastian,” she replied uncertainly. “Of course I would welcome the Order.”

Fornier smiled widely. “I am delighted to hear it.” He looked suddenly pensive. Nicolas almost snorted in amusement. That was the same expression the Knight-Captain had when he was about to spring a trap on some unwitting new Knight-Templar who thought they could get away with a minor misdemeanour. It had caught him more than once. “I must apologise, but I couldn’t help but notice how troubled the region seems. I suppose the civil war must have crippled the luxury granite trade.”

Mistress Poulin clasped her hands to prevent their sudden restlessness. She ducked her head away from Fornier’s calculating look. “It is true that we have fallen on hard times, but faith in the Maker and his bride will see us through.”

“That is an attitude to which we all aspire. But I am sure the Maker will not begrudge us proposing a more immediate solution,” he replied. He looked over his shoulder and gestured to Knight-Lieutenant Connall. The man strode forwards, robes whispering over the tiled floor, and set a small chest on the desk with a heavy thud. Knight-Captain Fornier extracted a key from a pocket and held it up to the light streaming in from the windows. “We wish to purchase your quarry and obtain the services of its workers.”

“You do? I—” Mistress Poulin faltered, surprise plainly written on her face.

Knight-Captain Fornier opened the chest to reveal a small sum of coin. It was probably enough to keep the town supplied for a few months, but Nicolas wasn’t quite sure it was enough to purchase an entire quarry.

“The quarry has been in my family for generations,” she protested, even as she seemed pained at denying the coin in front of her. “These economic difficulties will pass. I could not in good conscience sell it.”

Knight-Captain Fornier’s expression hardened. He straightened and a hand dropped to the hilt of his sword. Nicolas stiffened minutely from his position by the door. He was glad his helm kept his expression concealed. What in the Maker’s name was his Knight-Captain thinking?

“You misunderstand me, Mistress Poulin,” he snapped, all amicability gone in an instant. “This is not a negotiation. We will have the quarry regardless, but I would rather we work together than in opposition. Take the coin.”

Mistress Poulin seemed to shrink back into her chair. Wide eyes darted around the templars in the room. A Knight-Lieutenant at each of Fornier’s shoulders. Two Knights-Templar stationed inside the door. The rest of Fornier’s escort in her entrance hall. There was really only one answer she could even consider.

“I- I suppose I must accept your kind offer,” she stammered.

Knight-Captain Fornier’s expression lightened so quickly that Nicolas almost believed he had mistaken the threat. He dropped his hand away from the hilt of his sword. “Excellent decision, Mistress Poulin. Have no fear, you and the workers will be paid for your assistance. We have coin and plenty of provisions. The Order will help this region recover.”

He extended a hand with another easy smile, all aggression forgotten. Mistress Poulin’s throat visibly bobbed as she flinched backwards. She blinked, clearly as baffled by the abrupt changes in mood as Nicolas had been. Finally, she extended her own hand to clasp his.

“I am glad,” she replied in an admirably steady voice. “The people here deserve a chance at success.”

Knight-Captain Fornier’s smile widened into something that a paranoid man might have called smug. “I can assure you that they will be serving a greater purpose, Mistress Poulin. I imagine this is the beginning of a fine partnership. We will speak again soon, I have no doubt of it.” He stepped away from her desk. “Give us two days to establish ourselves in this Suledin Keep. Then inform the workers that Sahrnia’s quarry has been reopened.”

* * *

Nicolas idly poked at the glowing embers of a fire with a stick and drained the rest of his mug’s rapidly cooling contents. The air was cold this far south and this high up. The brilliant spring sunshine was more than enough compensation during the day, but the chill could be bitter at night. No easy task for templars who had almost exclusively come from the temperate north.

In the organised chaos of their move into Suledin Keep, it had been easy to believe he had misinterpreted Knight-Captain Fornier’s treatment of Mistress Poulin. Templars certainly had the authority — perhaps even a requirement on occasion — to threaten apostates or maleficarum, but they certainly didn’t extort civilians out of property, especially something as currently valueless as a quarry for luxury granite that no one was buying. If the Order really could help this struggling region recover, they had a duty to do it as best as they could. Little wonder that Knight-Captain Fornier had become irritated when Mistress Poulin refused to accept the offer. If he had truly wanted to take it by force, he could have done, given the number of templars in the region.

Etien had been less convinced by the argument when Nicolas had quietly recounted the days events over a campfire to him and Sybelle on his return that evening. The benefits of officer rank gave him leave to have doubts, perhaps. Regardless, Etien had been sent off on assignment with his Knight-Lieutenant the very next day. It was far easier for Nicolas to shake his brief discomfort without Etien’s reasoned scepticism.

For all that they had now taken possession of an entire keep, it was hardly any better than the camps they had established on the journey south. It was certainly an imposing building, covering an extensive area and with commanding views of the region. The walls were certainly sturdy, if perhaps a little more ornate than a human- or dwarf-built keep might have been. The sunken entrance was intact and perfectly defensible. But the interior was almost entirely overgrown with a riot of vines and the roof was long gone. Even the austere Circle barracks seemed cosy in comparison. Thank the Maker the spring weather was favourable.

There was a small part of Nicolas that was convinced it was a cruel joke at their expense that none of the scouts had bothered to mention to the rank-and-file that the region’s ‘keep’ was an Ages old ruin. Scouts and mage hunters had never bothered to hide their feelings of superiority over those who served their whole lives in the shelter of Circles. They were probably perversely delighted that the common Knights-Templar had to share in the discomfort that scouts experienced as a regular part of their duties.

Some aspects were more easily ignored than others. Nicolas set his mug to one side and swirled his lyrium in its tiny vial. Captivating cool blue to the fire’s warm orange. Now that they were settled rather than on the road, prepared lyrium rations were provided, and in such a way that it looked like a full measure. But none of them were that easily fooled. It was still a painfully precise half measure. Rationing was still in place, months after General Samson had visited Ghislain and told them all they would no longer struggle for survival once they began to assist the Elder One. Certainly not enough for him to be able to ignore the night-time chill.

Along with the blatantly obvious lack of any lyrium veins anywhere in Emprise du Lion, it was a detail that seemed to be evidence against their theory. None of them had received any new form of lyrium yet, as far as he was aware. The supplies sent by the White Spire had helped, but rationing was still in place until whenever Knight-Captain Fornier deemed it unnecessary. Surely if they were soon to be laying claim to their own source, the rationing would have been discontinued.

He closed his fingers around the vial, cutting off its gleam as he heard someone approach from behind. He glanced over as a familiar figure settled herself next to him with a sigh. She clutched her own lyrium vial in one hand, mug of warm tea in the other.

“Morning,” she muttered, eyes slitted against the fire’s glow. She raised the mug to take a sip, wispy tendrils of steam wreathing her face as she inhaled deeply.

“Middle watch?” Nicolas asked with a chuckle as he eyed the faintest traces of pink outlining the distant highland peaks. He supposed it would be morning soon enough.

She tipped her entire vial of lyrium into her mug of tea, dimming the pure glow to nothing more than a faint luminescence that caught the planes of her face as she raised it to her mouth. Nicolas turned away politely as she drained the murky liquid.

“Unfortunately,” she replied darkly as she glumly studied the empty mug. “Andraste give me strength. I will never again complain about a night watch in the Circle. At least I didn’t have to keep an eye out for stray roots and rocks all the time. It’s by the grace of the Maker alone that I haven’t broken my neck yet.”

Nicolas nodded his agreement and lifted his mug in a half-hearted toast. “To the unexpected advantages of life in a Circle.” He followed Sybelle’s example, mixing his own vial with the dregs of his tea in a vain attempt to convince himself the ration was more generous than it looked. He savoured the metallic burn as it slithered down his throat and shivered slightly as the revitalised purity of lyrium’s song hummed through his veins. “Surely you should be catching up on sleep before reveille?”

She glanced over at Nicolas, amusement playing at the corners of her mouth. “I hear our favourite Knight-Corporal is rejoining the camp today. I don’t want to miss their return from a glorious trip to whatever backwater they visited.”

“Oh?” Nicolas set his mug down again and shifted to face Sybelle. “How did you find out?”

“I could hardly give away my sources,” she replied with another wry smile.

“Would these sources of yours happen to know why they were sent out before we had even arrived at the keep?”

“Do any of us know anything these days?” she sighed. “Escorting Knights-Lieutenant Erasmus and Connall to meet with our allies was all I heard.”

Nicolas shrugged minutely. “Then I trust it was important.”

“Yes. Have faith and all that,” Sybelle replied dryly. She waved a hand vaguely in his direction. “That was always your strength, Nicolas, not mine.”

“Hence the additional vow.” He completed the familiar retort for her with a roll of his eyes. “I could almost imagine you were jealous, Sybelle.”

“Maker, no,” she replied with an exaggerated shudder. “I escaped that fate when I chose the Order over the Chantry. I leave decisions like that to pious people like you.”

Nicolas smirked and eased himself to his feet. His own watch was scheduled to begin at daybreak. The quarry workers operated under constant Templar observation, at Knight-Captain Fornier’s orders. It wasn’t all that different to serving in a Circle in truth.

“I should find Cartier,” he told her. “We’re assigned to watch duty in the quarry.”

“Find us when your watch is over,” Sybelle called out with a weary wave as Nicolas slipped away.

For all that it was a well-worn joke between them, there was an element of truth to Sybelle’s comment. His unswerving loyalty in service to the Templar Order was expected and had been gladly given ever since he had sworn his vows. Knights-Templar were never provided with the larger plan. Questioning orders was a quick path to chaos. Faith that his superiors were on the just path was all that was required, he reassured himself every time another doubt bubble to the surface, especially now that their place in Thedas had become so uncertain.

-

Nicolas was glad to to end his watch in the quarry that day, almost more for the noise than anything else. When they had arrived a mere week ago, the deep cuts and hollows in the earth had been neglected and empty. For the past few days, they had rung with the constant sound of hammering and scraping. No one below Knight-Lieutenant yet knew precisely why, but the quarry had been cleared of equipment in a matter of days by workers eager to receive payment. Now scaffolding was leaping up in every hollow in preparation for … something. Maker knew what that ‘something’ was exactly.

They emerged from the quarry into yet more commotion. There was more scaffolding out here too, building an easy route across to the outcropping holding the mysterious chained tower that marked the road to the keep and the abandoned buildings along the route. There was the makings of a forward camp at the tower’s base and at the foot of the outcropping now, an ideal location to defend both the quarry and the keep itself, should it become necessary. The area was littered with partially-erected tents and a small train of covered wagons. The activity ground to a halt as curious quarry workers slowed on their way out of the quarry and back down to Sahrnia. They were hurried onwards with a few shouted commands from senior officers. It seemed that the contents of the wagons were for Templar eyes only.

Nicolas didn’t dare observe for too long with the eagle eyes of Knight-Lieutenant Erasmus watching them pass on their way back to the keep. But whatever was in the crates, they were being handled incredibly carefully.

A raised hand caught his attention from the direction the keep as he and Cartier began to make their way back along the road. Nicolas bid a short farewell to Cartier and waited as Sybelle jogged up to meet him.

She gestured towards the organised chaos and the scatter of crates. “Looks like it was more than just a meeting with allies.”

“That it does. Perhaps we might actually get an explanation of why we need a quarry and a keep in the middle of nowhere,” Nicolas replied.

Her disbelieving look would have been visible from the distant towers of the keep. “We can only hope. ” She glanced over his shoulder, studying the templars overseeing the unloading of the wagons. “There he is. I’m sure he could do with a proper welcome after so long on the road.”

Sybelle led the way back down the road in the direction of the familiar figure. Etien stood directing his squad in the unloading of a wagon. He stalked to a wagon set apart from the rest and extracted a small chest, handling it with all the care one might have expected for a small child. A brief exchanged a word with Knight-Lieutenant Erasmus and he handed the chest off, saluting formally. Nicolas exchanged a veiled look with Sybelle. Clearly too light to be coin. Nothing but a supply of lyrium warranted that much care, but one small chest wouldn’t last more than a single day for the number of templars in the region.

Etien stiffened slightly as his Knight-Lieutenant nodded in their direction and said something. His expression was stonily unreadable as he glanced over his shoulder and spotted their approach. He saluted his Knight-Lieutenant again and made his way over to them, catching them before they could fully enter the busy forward camp. He was uneasy, almost bouncing on his toes as he looked from them back to the growing forward camp. Nicolas noted with a touch of concern that he looked wan. The journey seemed to have taken its toll.

“Nicolas. Sybelle,” Etien said flatly, hands clasped firmly behind his back. “Apologies but the forward camp is only for authorised templars today.”

Sybelle shot a short confused look over at Nicolas before offering Etien a smile. “We could hardly let you arrive without a proper welcome.”

Etien was hardly the most expressive of people, but his return smile seemed strained even so. “Thank you, Sybelle.” He glanced over his shoulder again. One fist clenched convulsively. His restlessness couldn’t be ignored now. It seemed rather obvious that he wanted nothing more than to leave. It didn’t make sense, not after the relaxed journey they’d had from the waystation in the lowlands. “But perhaps we can speak another time.”

Nicolas rubbed the back of his neck, inexplicably uncomfortable, as if something was hovering just outside his concious mind. He lowered his voice slightly. “Are you well, Etien? You seem…”

He hunted for the right word. Seemed what, exactly? Tense? Irritable? Restless? None of the words were quite right. To his side he saw Sybelle cock her head then nod in agreement. He wasn't just imagining things then.

“You could hardly be expected to make an accurate judgement of my well being, Nicolas,” Etien snapped irately, leaping into the gap Nicolas had left.

Nicolas recoiled at the sudden flare of temper, eyes widening. He held up a hand in apology. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—,” he began uncertainly. “I shouldn’t have—”

Etien gave an impatient shake of his head, brow creasing in a frown. “Maker. Forget I said that.” He stilled and seemed on the verge of saying more before a loud creak from one of the wagons drew his attention away. He snapped a too-fast glance behind him. His shoulders rose and fell in a sharp sigh as he turned back to them. “Please. Excuse me. It’s really better I leave.”

He turned smoothly away from them, neatly cutting off any further attempts at conversation. Somehow it felt right that both he and Sybelle saluted, an engrained reflex on the departure of a superior officer. Nicolas snapped his mouth shut on a response and watched as Etien swept away, already barking orders for his squad.

“I feel I ought to apologise on Etien’s behalf,” Sybelle muttered. “That was … unlike him.”

Nicolas nodded mutely and massaged his temple against a sudden headache. Too much noise, perhaps. He knew Etien was right. It was safer to remember what their rank difference meant. Their arrival in Emprise du Lion meant a return to the rigid hierarchical structure of Templar life. And yet he was left with a vague sense of disquiet that plagued his mind long into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know Mistress Poulin eventually starts selling people to the templars, but it starts out slightly more subtle. It’s only later that the red templars start outright abducting people from Sahrnia to grow red lyrium.


	3. Rifts

Nicolas squinted up at the dark tower framed against the cheerful azure brightness of an early spring sky. At a guess, he would have said it had been a watchtower once. Granted, no stairway to the top meant that was a questionable theory, but aside from that small detail, it seemed reasonable. Over his shoulder was Judicael’s Crossing, a grand stretch of bridge that leapt over a ravine with sides so steep it took his breath away looking over the edge. The Ghislain Circle tower might as well have been a mud hut in comparison to the bridge’s ornate extravagance. It was better suited to the heart of the capital than a secluded corner of Orlais like Emprise du Lion.

Nicolas winced slightly and stifled the temptation to look over his shoulder. The bridge _would_ have been suited to the capital, right until Knight-Captain Fornier had ordered the central stretch to be collapsed. A scout patrol had stumbled across a high dragon of all things in the ruins across the other side of the ravine. Nicolas was both glad and disappointed he hadn’t seen it. He didn’t see how a collapsed bridge was going to stop a dragon if it had developed a taste for templars, but he wasn’t going to argue with a Knight-Captain’s logic.

So, perhaps a watchtower to observe passing high dragons. But that theory didn’t explain why in the Maker’s name the tower was chained to the ground. It seemed to be rather a lot of effort to make for a purely decorative detail.

“Impressive, no?” came a voice from behind.

“Pardon?” Nicolas responded, startled out of his thoughts.

Nicolas turned to face the owner of the voice, a man almost a full head shorter and dressed in shabby work clothes that had seen better days. Yet he still seemed perfectly cheerful, one hand clutching a bag of well-worn tools, the other shading his eyes to peer up at the tower. They had coin and food, something that had apparently been in short supply ever since the civil war had started. They didn’t know that Knight-Captain Fornier had threatened their noble landowner to gain their service, thank the Maker. They also didn’t know the use of the structures that had been set up in the quarries. Then again, neither did Nicolas. They didn’t seem to care, but Nicolas couldn’t help but feel a little curiosity, for all that he told Sybelle to be patient and have faith.

“The Tower of Bone,” the man clarified. He set his toolbag at his feet and leaned over conspiratorially. “They say it was a demon.”

Nicolas coughed and cast a startled look at the man. “A demon? It’s a tower.”

Even so, he studied it with narrowed eyes, wondering if there had somehow been a detail that had been missed from their training. Demons could possesses trees and corpses. Perhaps a particularly confused one might possess a building. He was admittedly hardly an expert in demonic summoning — an area of expertise reserved for mage hunters or higher ranked Circle templars than him — but he wasn’t quite sure how it would even work. Would it possesses a single block of stone or the entire structure? How could it possibly know where the building ended and the ground began?

The villager nodded sagely, clearly not at all concerned by the details of arcane practice. “Long before the village of Sahrnia existed,” he began, voice dropping to the grandiose tones of a seasoned storyteller, “a blood mage summoned a demon. This demon was so powerful that it possessed the entire tower. The blood mage lived for years with it serving his every need.” He gave Nicolas a toothy grin. “And consuming those who dared do battle with him. But after the blood mage’s death, his sons were too weak to control their father’s demonic servant. Nor were they skilled enough to destroy the tower. And so they had only one option.” He slapped a hand on a chain link as thick as his arm. It didn’t move in the slightest. “They bound the demon with these chains and fled. But it will walk again should the chains ever break.”

“Maker,” Nicolas chuckled. He surreptitiously lowered a hand that had curled around the hilt of his sword, hoping the man hadn’t noticed. He had no idea how in the Maker’s name one killed a tower. Even a Circle-forged blade wasn’t going to do much good. “Blood mages and possessed buildings? If we had been told a story like that as recruits, we might never have been willing to sleep indoors again.”

The man shrugged and picked up his bag again. “A visiting historian found hundreds of bones beneath the tower. The Chantry sent a Revered Mother to deal with the remains. Perhaps there is something to the story.”

He offered a brief farewell before ambling onwards away from Nicolas to join his fellows. Nicolas spent another moment looking up at the tower. A small, irrational part of his mind wondered if the Templar Order standards they had put up there might be a suitable ward against demons. He shook off the faintly ridiculous image of a hundred foot tower causing havoc as it tore through the region. Maker knew there wasn’t going to be much they could do if it was true.

He strode away from the tower with a wry smile. At the very least, Sybelle might appreciate the story. Cartier, on the other hand, would not. His squad mate had already taken his place in the squad muster just beyond the Tower of Bone forward camp. Nicolas was one of the last to arrive, already bracing himself for some form of comment from Cartier as he slid into position, ready to be assigned the day’s duties.

Cartier sidelong disapproving glance was hardly a surprise as Nicolas settled into an at ease posture. “You shouldn’t really be talking to them,” he murmured.

“This isn’t the Circle, Cartier,” Nicolas replied with a restrained sigh. This topic was becoming old very quickly.

“Perhaps not,” Cartier mused. “But you’ll note that our duties have been the same.” He fell silent as a worker passed by on the path, watching the man walk by with the kind of utterly bland stare it took years in a Circle to truly perfect. “The only differences are that they carry hammers, not staffs,” he continued once the man was out of earshot, “and we don’t have to live with them. Thank the Maker for that.”

Nicolas chose to stay quiet. He had no particular answer. It hardly seemed necessary for them to spend their days watching the workers. They weren’t _doing_ anything. And yet patrols were just as regular and just as thorough as they would have been in the Circle. The senior officers were certainly busy. Couriers left every few days. The workers had almost finished setting up the equipment that Knight-Lieutenant Erasmus had brought from their mysterious allies, but its purpose was just as mysterious as the Tower of Bone. They knew less now about events than they had when they had still served in a Circle.

This time he couldn’t prevent himself from casting a quick glance over his shoulder to the bulk of the forward camp at the base of the tower. Etien hadn’t said more than two words to him or Sybelle since his return almost two weeks ago. He was in the forward camp now, shadowing his Knight-Lieutenant. To say he had ignored Nicolas as he had walked through the forward camp would have been kind. No, his attention had simply passed over Nicolas as if they hardly knew each other. A Knight-Corporal noting and dismissing the presence of a Knight-Templar.

Even from a distance it had been blindingly obvious that Etien didn’t look any better than he had on his arrival at Suledin Keep. If anything, he looked worse. Nicolas could have sworn he was battling a severe fever. He would have wondered why Etien hadn’t been sent to the surgeon, except that he looked positively healthy in comparison to Knight-Lieutenant Erasmus.

He sighed resignedly. Whatever the explanation, it wasn’t his business.

“We were sent here for some reason,” he replied, returning his focus to Cartier. “If it’s not for us to know…” he shrugged minutely and tailed off.

Hopefully the grand purpose that Knight-Captain Fornier had said they were fulfilling would become clear at some point soon. But regardless, it had to be better than guarding an empty tower, waiting for their funds to run out.

“Faith and duty,” Cartier sighed.

The final latecomer jogged up to the group with a perfunctory apology for Knight-Corporal Laval. The Knight-Corporal gave him an unreadable look and gestured him into place with nothing more than a nod that said his presence had been ticked off on Laval’s internal list.

Nicolas stifled another sigh, only partially because Laval hadn’t bothered to reprimand the late arrival. Harper was a recent addition to the squad, transferred over to fill in the gap left by Renne’s mysterious absence. Three days now and Knight-Corporal Laval hadn’t given a word of explanation. They had simply mustered for their duties and found Harper in Renne’s place. Theories ran anywhere from difficulties with lyrium to him having accidentally wandered off the end of Judicael’s Crossing or been eaten by the high dragon. Now Nicolas would have to add an encounter with a possessed tower to that list. They still held out hope that Renne might reappear. He had been a Circle veteran even when Nicolas had first arrived in Ghislain. It was a shame to lose his steady — if occasionally forgetful — presence.

Renne’s replacement could have been an advantage to their squad. Harper was from Kirkwall, a later addition than Knights-Lieutenant Connall and Hayden. More importantly, she was still a Knight-Templar. Unfortunately, not a single one of them had managed to convince her to discuss anything more than the most mundane topics, if they managed to convince her to speak at all. Even the most indirect questions about General Samson’s plans were ignored, and she flatly refused to speak about why he had left Kirkwall. Yet another mystery to add to their time in Emprise du Lion.

Knight-Corporal Laval clasped his hands behind his back and cleared his throat, drawing his squad’s attention. “We will be relieving Knight-Corporal Gerrit at the forward camp being established to secure Drakon’s Rise,” he announced. “Sers Garroux and Debrosse, guard duty on the supplies. Sers Agrican and Tadreau, the passage down to Sahrnia. The rest—”

Nicolas shifted in surprise as Laval cut off abruptly, an uncharacteristic look of confusion on his face. Nicolas dared break discipline long enough to raise an eyebrow at Cartier. Then he too stiffened. The reaction rolled through the Tower of Bone forward camp in a wave of confused voices and drawn swords.

A taut wave of some pressure that Nicolas couldn’t even begin to describe had rolled through the air. His skin burned as the lingering energy diffused across the lyrium pervading his body. It was like the air after a summer storm had rolled over, only the sky was still serenely cloudless, ignorant of the distrubance below. Magic, obviously. But of what kind, he couldn’t say. Certainly nothing that had ever been practiced in the Ghislain Circle in all the time he had been there. He gazed down the pathway towards Sahrnia. Somewhere in that direction, whatever it had been.

“Demons,” a voice announced grimly. Harper shrugged loosely as the massed attention of every other member of the squad focused on her. She seemed to be the only one whose hand hadn’t instinctively reached towards a weapon. “Or at the very least, a pretty decent tear in the Veil.”

“You’re sure?” Laval demanded.

“We got pretty familiar with recognising tears in the veil in Kirkwall, Ser.”

“Maker,” Laval snapped. He seemed somewhere between aggrieved and eager. A Knight-Corporal was no more immune to restlessness than the rest of them. “A blood mage would be a fool to be anywhere near here.”

Nicolas flicked a quick glance at the looming Tower of Bone behind them and exhaled. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled. Of all the times to be told a children’s story about possessed buildings.

A raised voice barking out orders heralded Knight-Lieutenant Erasmus’ attempt to restore order to the forward camp. He stalked over to Laval, fists working restlessly by his side. He might look half way to a corpse, but he had enough energy for ten men. Etien and the squad under his command were a grimly silent presence at his back.

“Who is currently in command at Drakon’s Rise?”

“Knight-Corporal Gerrit, Ser,” Laval supplied.

Erasmus frowned at Laval and folded his arms.

“Formerly from Perendale, Knight-Lieutenant,” Laval hurried to add. “Joined before our rendezvous with your forces.”

“Then his men won’t be enough,” Erasmsus snapped. He cast a quick glance over Nicolas and the rest of his squad, dismissing them all before his eyes settled on Harper. A quick smile flickered over his face. “You’ll do. Form up with Ser Cime’s squad. Keep the rest of the men in the camp out of the way, Knight-Corporal. Secure Suledin Keep. And send someone to inform Knight-Captain Fornier.”

A muscle twitched in Lavan’s jaw. Clearly he was angry at being assigned to guard duty. “Should I inform him that we may have a blood mage in the region?”

“No,” Knight-Lieutenant Erasmus replied curtly. “This was not a blood mage.” He looked the squad over before settling a flat look on Laval. “You understand the orders, I presume.”

Laval stiffened. He saluted crisply nonetheless. “I do, Ser.” He turned sharply to glare at Harper. “You heard the Knight-Lieutenant, Ser Harper. Move,” he snapped. “Ser Tadreau. Find the Knight-Captain.”

Knight-Lieutenant Erasmus marched away before Laval was even given a chance to finish handing out his orders. Nicolas quickly found somewhere else to look as Etien’s gaze swept over him. Just one Knight-Templar amongst many. When he looked up again, Knight-Lieutenant Erasmus was already selecting other templars from those in the forward camp, seemingly at random. He and Etien’s reinforced squad jogged away in the direction of Drakon’s Rise to the sound of hushed speculation from those who had been left behind.

-

Knight-Captain Fornier made an appearance, sweeping out of Suledin Keep with a host of other templars in full plate. Predominantly their Kirkwall and White Spire brothers and sisters, Nicolas couldn’t help but note as he had watched them march past. He supposed it was a sensible precaution. Ghislain had been quiet. As with any Circle, there had been the occasional failed Harrowing, but demons and blood magic had been a vanishingly rare occurrence. As much as he hated to admit it, Ghislain Templars wouldn’t be the frontline choice to face maleficarum.

But that was all that he and Cartier — relegated to standing watch at the Suledin Keep gatehouse — had been able to see. They both had years of experience in staying focused during long and tedious watches, but curiosity had Nicolas shifting restlessly at his post.

Clearly Knight-Lieutenant Erasmus had known that the magical disturbance hadn’t been linked to blood magic, but that was the only force Nicolas knew of that could rip open the Veil. Spirit mages could draw on the more benign denizens of the Fade to aid in healing, but that was different. Somehow. Their training had been quite clear on that particular detail. Any mage was susceptible to possession. If they chose to submit to the whispers of the demons in their dreams or were too weak to resist, the demon was given a pathway into the physical world. To tear a hole in the Veil fit for a demon the corruption of blood magic.

He forced himself into something vaguely resembling attention, straightening and settling one hand on the pommel of his sword as the sound of marching footsteps carried towards him. Neat ranks of templars strode down the path leading from the quarry to Suledin Keep, polished armour growing dull in the long shadow cast by the keep. Whatever the threat had been, it hadn’t been enough to keep them occupied for long. Knight-Captain Fornier and Knight-Lieutenant Erasmus weren’t amongst the returning templars. No doubt they were handling the aftermath of whatever had been the cause of the magical disturbance.

He stared blankly onwards, futilely attempting to split his focus between the passing templars, the path beyond, and theories it really wasn’t his responsiblity to consider. Perhaps once he might have believed that only blood magic could tear the Veil, but recent events had made it clear that wasn’t the case. His thoughts were thrown back to what Knight-Captain Fornier had said. The Fade-touched magic that the Inquisition’s supposed Herald wielded. The vast tear in the Veil under which the Inquisition were based.

Nicolas murmured a quick prayer under his breath. “Another breach? Here?”

“Only a small rift, thank the Maker,” a passing Knight-Corporal commented quietly to him. “But we couldn’t close it. Whatever happened at the Divine’s conclave is spreading.”

Nicolas winced internally at having been caught in breach of discipline whilst on duty. “Apologies, Ser,” he began, before belatedly recognising the wan face above the Knight-Corporal’s armour. He cleared his throat awkwardly and continued. “Won’t happen again, Knight-Corporal Cime.”

Nicolas couldn’t read the expression that crossed Etien’s face. This close, the feverish description didn’t seem quite as accurate. A feverish man would have been covered by a thin sheen of sweat. Etien was simply flushed where he wasn’t pallid.

The other man nodded and drew back a step, resettling his helm under his arm. His eyes flickered to his squad as they passed him. Nicolas fought to keep his expression professionally neutral. Etien clearly still wanted nothing to do with him. Maker knew why he had stopped to speak in the first place.

“Understood, Ser Agrican.”

A resounding crack split the air in two. The brilliant flare of a smite — oddly tinted by distance — lit the dark interior of the gatehouse tunnel. Nicolas’ heart skipped a beat. His focus snapped away from Etien to the dim archway of the keep’s gatehouse. There couldn’t have been intruders inside the keep. Neither of them had taken their eyes off the road for the entirety of their watch. Etien had just confirmed that there were no blood mages. There was no reason for a templar to call a smite down. Certainly not in a secure keep.

Etien’s eyes darkened with something that was almost but not quite anger. He darted away almost before Nicolas could react. Nicolas exchanged a wide-eyed look with Cartier and followed at a sprint.

Another brilliant flare lit the gatehouse tunnel as Nicolas entered, searing his eyes and temporarily turning his vision a solid red. In the enclosed space, the crack was deafening. Confused shouts echoed from the narrow space. Above it all, a man’s strident voice shrieked incoherently.

His vision cleared to the scene of utter confusion. A Knight-Corporal lay sprawled on the floor, a sword protruding from his breastplate like a flagpole. It must have taken incredible strength to pierce right through the metal and chainmail beneath. A handful of Knights-Templar were sprawled on the floor where they had been thrown. Those left standing had attempted to subdue the culprit. He tossed aside the man restraining him as if a templar in full plate weighed nothing and threw a punch that sent another stumbling back. He seemed to not even recognise his own name as they called out for him to stop.

People backed away, leaving the man standing over the corpse of his Knight-Corporal. Nicolas knew them only by sight. White Spire templars.

He froze as the man’s wide eyes fixed on him. He could swear they were glowing. It had to have been an after effect of the smite that had temporarily blinded him. Surely. Only demons had glowing eyes.

The impossible view was abruptly cut off as Etien interposed himself between Nicolas and the hysterical templar, one hand on the hilt of his sword, the other raised in a placatory gesture.

“Stay back, Nicolas,” Etien barked, throwing a quick glance over his shoulder.

“I know _you_ hear it, _Ser_ ,” the man spat at Etien, lip curling in disgust as he turned the respectful address into a venomous insult. He lurched to one side, a finger stabbing out to point at the loose ring of people around him. “And you. And you.” Angry eyes fixed on Nicolas again. They weren’t glowing. Thank the Maker. “But you? You only hear a pale echo.” He raised a hand and clutched at his head, voice rising back into a shriek. “You all need to hear it. Then you’ll understand!”

“What?!” Nicolas snapped. “Look at him. He needs help.”

“You can’t help.” Etien voice was a low growl. He shifted to keep himself in the templar’s view. Slow, dangerous steps that said he was as likely to draw his blade as help the man. “You will stay back, Knight-Templar Agrican.”

Nicolas jerked away from the blunt order. “Ser,” he ground out.

A quick exchange of non-verbal orders with the men of his squad and Etien began to circle in closer. Techniques for restraining people safely worked regardless of whether their target was a mage or not.

They darted together at the same moment, forcing the hysterical templar to the ground. Nicolas winced in sympathy as the man was shoved down. Far too aggressive to be safe, but he didn’t even seem to notice. Another pair of templars joined them, each restraining a limb. Even then, the templar’s bucking nearly threw them all off.

“No! Keep away. You did this to me,” the templar shrieked. He almost succeeded in pulling himself away, despite the weight keeping him down. “Void take you all!”

Nicolas offered a brief prayer that the man knew better than to call a smite down on people right next to him. He hovered uncertainly behind Etien, shifting warily from one foot to another. He had to help, but Maker knew what he could even do. Maker knew what was wrong with the man writhing on the floor. He cast a jerky glance over his shoulder at Cartier. HIs squad mate had stopped just inside the arch of the gate. He offered Nicolas a tight shrug. Clearly Cartier was no more the wiser than Nicolas.

His focus flickered back as he caught a hint of hushed conversation between Etien and his squad. He edged a little closer to catch the words.

“Another one, Ser,” one of Etien’s templars murmured.

“So it would seem. Maker help us all.” Etien pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled. “Knight-Lieutenant Erasmus is with Knight-Captain Fornier at the rift. Go fetch Knight-Lieutenant Connall.”

“At once, Ser.”

Another templar rushed in to keep the sobbing templar pinned to the floor. He had stopped fighting the restraining hold now, but his resignation seemed somehow worse. Nicolas shuddered suddenly. The other templar was humming under his breath, an atonal melody that did absolutely nothing to ease Nicolas’ racing heartbeat. He backed away to join Cartier, suddenly more than happy to leave the madman to Etien.

“Not my problem,” he muttered uneasily. “Maker give him strength. Not my problem.”

He had first seen a templar who had lost their mind to lyrium barely a year ago. It had been an unpleasant surprise to discover what would eventually happen to them if they took it long enough. Everything came with a price, but it seemed that the price of their power was particularly high. They had found her hunting for apostates in the storeroom. She had been absent-minded, paranoid, anxious. But the only danger she had posed had been to sacks of grain. She had been sent to Val Royeaux soon after. Retirement.

This was nothing like what he had seen then. The hysteria was all the more disturbing for the fact that it came from a templar. He was emotional, frantic and desperate in a way no one taking lyrium could ever be in normal circumstances. And strong. Far too strong for someone who might have been suffering withdrawal.

There were far too many mysteries for comfort here. He found himself suddenly wishing for the routine of the Circle. Boredom was better than madness.

Nicolas was oddly reassured to see Knight-Lieutenant Connall rush into the gatehouse. For all that he and Sybelle had agreed that they didn’t especially trust the Kirkwallers, Connall was still a superior officer. The relief withered slightly at Connall’s look of dismay as he studied the scene.

“That expert can’t arrive soon enough,” the Knight-Lieutenant muttered under his breath. “Escort him to the inner keep. Knight-Corporal Cime, is it? Stay here and—” he looked vaguely uncomfortable as he assessed the dead body of the Knight-Corporal and the dazed templars who had been under his command. “And deal with this mess.”

It took three of Etien’s men to pull the restrained templar to his feet. He fought them every step of the way, in turns ranting at Conall — who remained so studiously indifferent that it had to be an act — or whispering in a ragged, haunted voice.


	4. Special Assignment

Nicolas wearily trudged up the wide stairway. Thin beams of moonlight streaked through the empty arches of broken windows, dappled by the overgrown vegetation that plagued every spare inch of the keep. One caught on a darker patch on his gauntlets. He raised it to the feeble light. There was some blood engrained in the seams. He scrubbed at it with a resigned sigh. An unwelcome reminder of the dead, murdered by their own brother templar only a few hours ago. Their bodies had needed to be cleared from the gatehouse and prepared for their pyre. A bitter business.

He neatly dodged a loose pile of rubble on the uneven flagstones. Aside from storing their supplies and setting up tents and a rudimentary mess, no one had bothered to clear the rubble and vegetation. It would have taken far too much time to be worth the trouble, and so they had to deal with the inconvenience.

A keep had sounded like a perfect place to establish themselves when they had arrived in the Emprise not so long ago. The dim moonlight made it seem less of a ruin than it was, turning the broken walls and once-elegant architecture into something with a haunting beauty. In daylight, it looked exactly like the ruin that it was.

He hadn’t been especially bothered by its state until now. But making his way back to the tent he shared with Cartier and four others for a paltry few hours of sleep before dawn reveille, he couldn’t find it in himself to be kind. He hadn’t been given a full dose of lyrium in months. He was exhausted, he was on edge. To top the day off, a splitting headache had plagued him since the madman had been dragged away.

And Maker forbid the keep actually have a sensible layout. Clearly ancient elves had had a very different idea of what made for an easily navigable building. He was half convinced there were more stairs here than in the Ghislain Circle tower. The only benefit was that the layout would be as maddening for an invading force as the keep’s latest inhabitants.

It felt childish to complain, but it wasn’t just the layout that was irritating. The Circle’s barracks might have been crowded, with the constant background rumble of snores, but at least it had been warm, with proper bunks. Narrow and lumpy, but bunks. After an afternoon spent worrying about demons and being terrorised by a man who had lost mind, followed by an evening hauling around dead bodies, all he wanted was somewhere vaguely comfortable to sleep. The only sheltered spaces in the entire keep were reserved for their stores. Entirely off limits to all but Knight-Captain Fornier’s select few. White Spire and Kirkwall templars, of course. He and his tent mates had woken up drenched to the skin when early spring rain had leaked through into their tent a few days ago. A broken down keep was a far cry from a proper Circle or garrison. There were blighted _trees_ growing up through the stones, for the Maker’s sake.

He closed his eyes and offered a brief apology to the Maker for the profanity, mild as it was. The Maker had probably heard far worse. Probably from His templars too, but that was hardly an excuse.

He muttered a snatch of the Chant and stopped picking at the stubborn blood stain. He had seen the dead before. Templars were warriors, after all. Ghislain might have been a quiet Circle, but it was hardly immune to incidents. He had seen a failed harrowing perhaps a year into his service there. An apprentice the same age as him. Usually First Enchanter Carina had been an excellent judge of an apprentice’s preparedness for their Harrowing, but that time she had miscalculated. He could still remember the nauseating sound as spindly limbs the apprentice was just growing into warped into unnaturally sharp angles under the influence of a demon maddened by its entry into the physical world. A sword through the heart had granted him mercy and ended the abomination before it could take hold. He had served in Ghislain’s small division of mage hunters too, more for his adept sword arm than any particular skill at tracking. He had been perfectly content to rotate back into the Circle itself, but in the two years he had served with them, he had faced more than just demons. Those deaths had been necessary, a part of a templar’s duty to enact the Maker’s will and protect His faithful from the dangers posed by magic.

The deaths today had simply been … futile. A templar murdering his brothers and sisters with the impossible strength of a man possessed by a demon? It was impossible to believe. If he hadn’t witnessed it himself, he _wouldn_ _’t_ have believed the story.

He slitted his eyes against the sudden brightness of torches as his headache flared up briefly. As if he needed a reminder. Despite the brief twinge, he was glad to see the makeshift barracks, a neat row of tents lined up in one of the few open spaces that wasn’t overgrown with trees. He passed Cartier, sitting on a chunk of stone polishing a pauldron, and made for their tent to fetch his own kit. The sooner he could clean his armour, the sooner he could get some rest. One of the small but vital lessons that veterans had to pass on to fresh initiates. It was never a good idea to assume there would be time to tend to one’s armour in the morning.

Address the problems that were his, and leave the problems that weren’t to those more qualified. Knight-Lieutenant Connall had been informed. He was handling it. Whatever ‘it’ was. That would have been reassuring, but Connall hadn’t exactly seemed particularly sure what to do about the entire situation either.

His was halfway to unbuckling his breastplate as Sybelle came hurrying through an archway across the courtyard. She exchanged a barely-polite greeting with Cartier and strode towards Nicolas.

“Let’s talk,” she said curtly.

“Maker, Sybelle. It’s been a long day,” he sighed. “Aren’t you still assigned to the night watch? We can speak tomorrow, at breakfast.”

“Yes, in half a bell.” She tugged him away from the substitute barracks and into the darkness. “And no, now.”

A glare sent a Knight-Templar who couldn’t have been more than a year out of initiation away from the shelter of an alcove set into the keep’s outer walls. She leaned against the frame of a narrow window. The moonlight caught freshly polished armour as she folded her arms and looked out over the murky expanse of the highlands at night.

“Did you hear?” She must have somehow managed to catch Nicolas’ exasperated eye roll, even in the dark. She waved a hand vaguely in the direction of the gatehouse. “Hear what happened today, I mean.”

“Do you mean a rip in the Veil that opened right on our doorstep,” he asked wearily, “or the man who lost his mind right in front of me?”

“Maker above. You were there?” She brushed a hand over her head, tucking a few strands back into her tight tail of hair. A nervous habit she rarely indulged. “I heard about it from Poule — you won’t know him, but he’s in Knight-Corporal Gerrit’s squad — at the evening meal. Do you have any idea what could have caused it?”

Nicolas leaned against the wall next to her and watched the leaping shadows cast on the wall by the cheerful light of a distant brazier. “I wish I knew. His squad mates said he had been on edge the past few days, but on the brink of losing his mind? No.”

“Was it this rift, then? One too many demons?”

Nicolas glanced briefly over at her. “We’re templars, Sybelle. Handling demons is our calling.”

“You lived in the Circle barracks too, Nicolas,” she replied sardonically. “Don’t pretend you never noticed the … problems that some of the veterans had.”

Nicolas wished there was enough light for her to properly appreciate his glare. Yes, there had been templars who had nightmares that even lyrium couldn’t keep at bay, but it was an unspoken rule that no one ever acknowledged it. Even if they woke you in the middle of the night.

“But you’re probably right,” she continued unawares. “Apparently this has happened a few times since our arrival. Usually not in quite as spectacular a fashion.”

“It has?” Nicolas blurted out, blinking in surprise.

She gave a sharp nod. “In the two weeks since we arrived in the Emprise, ten people have disappeared. Renne from your squad. You remember Knight-Corporal Lyra, of course. She disappeared. Others, too. Maker. _Ten_ people, Nicolas.”

“That’s not quite the same, Sybelle.”

“No? It’s still rather suspicious. And even forgetting the fact that Etien has stopped speaking to us, have you seen how terrible he looks?” She shook her head quickly and continued before Nicolas could slip in a response. “Of course you have. My Knight-Corporal is the same. And now there’s a tear in the Veil barely a mile away. I could swear this keep is cursed. If someone told me there were demons lurking here, I would believe them.” Nicolas winced and bit his tongue. Now was probably not the time to share a campfire tale on possessed towers. “And of course there’s still no sign of our theoretical new lyrium source.”

“I—”

“Don’t even think of saying what I know you’re about to, Nicolas. Not all of us are like you,” she cut him off, before raising a hand in apology. “Sorry. You’re right of course. I suppose that all those structures we’ve had the workers build aren’t just there to look threatening.”

Nicolas swallowed what he had intended to say. ‘Have faith’ hadn’t actually been the exact wording, although it had certainly been along those lines. There was definitely a downside to having grown up together. Sybelle knew his mind a little too well at times.

“So I would assume,” he agreed instead. “The fact that so much has been built does suggest that there’s good reason for us being here.”

“What did I say about telling me to have faith, Nicolas?” she laughed dryly.

“It’s a valid response,” he replied defensively. The truth was, saying the words aloud was as much to reassure himself as her. He tilted his chin up and peered short-sightedly down his nose at Sybelle. “If the day comes that the Maker requires you to lose your mind, you will gladly embrace that fate as Andraste embraced the flames.”

She snorted and gave an exaggeratedly formal salute. “Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow. Maker above, Nicolas. You missed your calling. How you can manage to sound like a seventy year old Revered Mother is beyond me.”

He gave her a lopsided grin and saw a brief flash of teeth in the moonlight as she returned his smile. “I almost miss the monastery. Almost.”

“Likewise.”

“Maker willing this will all calm down soon enough. The Inquisition will dissolve. The war will collapse. The Lord Seeker will reunite the Order. Our hypothetical unlimited supply of lyrium will emerge.” His jaw cracked as a yawn broke him off. “I’m sure everything will seem far less mysterious in the morning.” He sobered briefly. “If you have time in between your duties, the service for the dead is at noon tomorrow.”

“I’ll try and attend,” she replied quietly. “And I apologise for the tirade. I’m sure I’ve given this far too much thought.”

He shrugged a shoulder. “This is hardly a normal situation.”

“It certainly isn’t. I suppose it’s hard to tell, but I actually quite like it here. Maybe I was born in the highlands.” She sighed and pushed herself out of the alcove. “I should go before my Knight-Corporal sends out a scouting party to find me.”

Nicolas smirked. “I wish you an entirely uneventful patrol. May the Maker grant that you not trip over a rock. And don’t forget,” he called out after her as she began to walk away. “Have—”

“Have faith. Yes,” she laughed, waving a hand over her shoulder to shoo him away. “Good night, Nicolas. I’ll speak to you tomorrow.”

-

There was the faintest glimmer of dawn’s light leaking through the coarse weave of Nicolas’ tent as reveille was called the following day. He muttered a good morning to his tent mates that was more groan than speech and slipped on his tabard. His pile of armour was an unwieldy weight in his arms as he ducked out of the tent into the grey light of another dawn.

He nearly fumbled the load as he spotted Knight-Corporal Laval waiting only a handful of feet from his tent. Maker. Even worse, Knight-Corporal Laval’s commanding officer, Knight-Lieutenant Coutte. He couldn’t tell whether her detached expression was amused or simply stern. Either way, it couldn’t be a good sign when his superior’s superior was waiting outside his tent in the morning. Small chance that they were waiting for someone else. Their attention had fixed on him in a decidedly uncomfortable way. Maker knew what he could have done in the last day to earn his Knight-Lieutenant’s attention.

He hastily set his armour at his feet and offered them both a precise salute, fist thumping the Blade of Mercy embroidered over his heart. If only there was enough space in the tent to don his full attire. He felt half dressed facing them without his armour. It was every recruit’s nightmare of a bunk inspection gone horribly wrong.

“Knight-” he cleared his throat and started again. “Knight-Lieutenant, Knight-Corporal. Good morning.”

Laval folded his arms and eyed Nicolas. “We would like a word, Ser Agrican.”

“Of course, Ser.” He flicked a quick look down at his pile of armour. “Might I…” he trailed off as Laval shook his head impatiently.

“You can return for it later,” Knight-Lieutenant Coutte interjected smoothly. “Follow me, Knight-Templar.”

Nicolas swallowed against a lump in his throat and saluted as the pair began to lead him away. He hurriedly ran through the days since their arrival in Emprise du Lion. He wasn’t a raw recruit, prone to making mistakes. Nor was he the kind of templar who regularly defied orders. Etien wouldn’t have reported him for trying to help the madman yesterday. Or at least, he certainly hoped that was the case. Was speaking to workers from Sahrnia an offence worthy of a senior officer? Granted, the mind of a senior officer was a strange thing, but it seemed unlikely unless they had nothing better to do with their time. Being assigned as Knight-Captain Fornier’s close escort on his visit to Mistress Poulin was a sure sign that his superiors trusted him. Perhaps he had seen or done something there that he shouldn’t have. But then Cartier would have been summoned too, and they wouldn’t have waited so long.

He gave up with a quiet exhalation and accelerated to keep pace with Laval. He couldn’t even begin to guess why both his Knight-Corporal and his Knight-Lieutenant wanted to speak to him, so there wasn’t much point in worrying. Instead, he focused on where they were heading.

Knight-Lieutenant Coutte had led them away into the sections limited to the officers. There wasn’t really all that much to differentiate it from the rest of the keep, aside from the fact that it was empty of people. There was still rubble in every corner and plants growing in every space they could find. He supposed it was vaguely comforting to know that their superiors didn’t have any more luxury than the rank-and-file.

Knight-Lieutenant Coutte stopped them in a quiet room in the keep’s upper reaches. One of the few spaces that actually had a roof, it was oddly quiet after weeks living out in the open.

At Knight-Lieutenant Coutte’s nod, Laval turned to Nicolas with a tight smile. “You’ll be glad to hear that you’ve been selected for a special assignment, Ser Agrican. Knight-Lieutenant Coutte requested my most reliable Knight-Templar. You’re the lucky soul that came to mind.”

The small, worried part of Nicolas’ mind breathed a sigh of relief. He hadn’t done something wrong without realising it after all.

“Will my regular duties be changing, Ser?”

Laval barked out a short laugh. “It’s not a promotion, Ser Agrican. I said most reliable, not best.”

“Ah—” Nicolas cleared his throat and blinked. Maker knew Laval’s severe lack of diplomacy had only worsened after they’d left Ghislain, but that had been particularly cutting, even for him.

Coutte cast a disapproving look at Laval. “What Ser Laval means is that last night I required each Knight-Corporal under my command to put forward the name of their steadiest and most dependable subordinates. Those who have given their commanding officers no reason for doubt or concern. Your name has come up before and was offered again.”

Nicolas cocked his head, a spark of curiosity lighting in his mind. A special assignment with those kind of requirements certainly sounded curious, promotion or not. “For what purpose, if I might ask, Knight-Lieutenant?”

She gave him a small smile. From this close, her eyes seemed to be ringed in red, as if she’d been awake the entire night. “You’ll recall how Knight-Captain Fornier called us forerunners. Or pathfinders, I suppose. You’ve been selected to join that growing pool. It won’t interfere at all with your daily duties. In fact, you may find that it helps. Is that a role you’re willing to take?”

Nicolas had to stop himself from rolling his eyes. The illusion of choice. As if he could ever refuse an order from his Knight-Lieutenant, or any Knight-Lieutenant for that matter. Besides, he was genuinely curious to find out what exactly he would be required to do. A change was definitely welcome, even if he hadn’t been given any detail.

“Of course, Ser,” he replied cautiously.

Her smile widened. “Excellent.” She turned to Laval. “Dismissed, Ser Laval.”

As Laval left, he passed Knight-Lieutenant Connall coming the other way with a chest cradled in his arms. Connall gave Nicolas an appraising look as he passed, setting the chest down before he had a chance to study it. His curiosity rose a little more. Connall might be a Knight-Lieutenant, but there were no men under his command. His precise role in Emprise du Lion was a mystery. It would seem that whatever he was here for had some relation to his ‘special assignment’.

“Connall. Excellent timing,” Coutte said coldly. “Don’t lose this one.”

Nicolas blinked. What in the Maker’s name did she mean by that?

“Being an officer doesn’t make you any more immune than the rest of us,” he retorted bitterly. “Unless you think you can do a better job, leave me to get on with it.”

She laughed without much amusement and turned to Nicolas. “Connall will handle things from here, Ser Agrican. I’m sure you won’t disappoint.”

She accepted Nicolas’ salute with a curt nod and left him alone with Connall.

“Don’t pay attention to Coutte,” he remarked to Nicolas with a shrug once her footsteps had faded away. His Free Marcher accent was a coarse contrast to the softer, more familiar tones of Orlais. “I was a Knight-Templar like you only a year ago. She doesn’t like that very much.”

Unsure how to respond, Nicolas simply offered a neutral nod. “As you say, Knight-Lieutenant.”

Connall snorted and turned his back on Nicolas. The snap of opening catches was loud in the enclosed space. Nicolas swayed slightly on his feet to see around Connall whilst his back was turned. A little chest of wood stained a warm rusty brown, bound in solid iron and sealed with two very solid-looking locks. His heart leapt in cautious anticipation. If it wasn’t the same one Etien had brought into Suledin Keep a few weeks ago, it was certainly similar.

Connall flipped the lid open, grabbed something from inside and sealed it again before Nicolas could catch a glimpse of the contents. He hurriedly pulled himself straight again as Connall turned back to face him, something clasped in his hand.

Connall looked him up and down as if inspecting parade dress. Nicolas cleared his throat, wishing Laval had given him chance to don his armour. He might be as neat as he could be given that they didn’t have access to proper facilities, but it wasn’t quite the same.

“Coutte tells me you’re reliable,” Connall continued. “Dutiful. You follow orders. No record of lyrium abuse.”

That last comment was made with particularly dry amusement. Nicolas’ opinion of Connall hadn’t changed from when General Samson’s chosen representatives had joined them in Ghislain. For all that his distinctively Free Marches templar attire was perfectly well maintained, Connall still looked like a lyrium addict. Sallow skin and hungry eyes weren’t particularly reassuring in a squad mate, let alone a Knight-Lieutenant.

His attitude was certainly different to templars trained in Orlais too. Rigid military discipline and unwavering faith was drilled into them all from a young age. Connall seemed to take a rather more … relaxed attitude to both. Then again, rumour had it that he had been expelled some time after Kirkwall’s chantry had been destroyed by an apostate. Harper fit in far more easily with her Orlesian brethren, for all that she kept herself separate. Perhaps Connall wasn’t particularly representative. Maker knew how he had managed to gain a promotion and end up in Orlais.

“Yes, Ser,” Nicolas replied cautiously.

“Right. Frankly, I couldn’t care less,” he said with a roll of his eyes. “How often you pray to the Maker won’t make a shred of difference, trust me. But Coutte figures it’s important.”

Nicolas shifted uncomfortably. If Connall _was_ representative of Kirkwall’s templars, it was hardly a surprise the whole chapter had collapsed in on itself. “I’m not sure I understand, Ser.”

“Let me make things a little clearer for you then.” Connall opened his hand and held a familiar cylindrical glass vial between thumb and forefinger. A slow smiled crawled across his face as he raised it to eye level.

Nicolas didn’t need to feign his surprise at seeing the glowing contents. He swayed forwards, fascinated. For all that he had already heard the name ‘red lyrium’, he hadn’t actually expected it to be red. The contents of the vial were a rich, unnatural crimson. More vibrant than arterial blood and glowing brighter than a candle flame.

“What do we templars need most? As much as we need air?” Connall asked rhetorically. His lip curled as if he’d just tasted something unpleasant. “The Mothers will tell you it’s the Maker, but that’s a barefaced lie to make us feel like someone cares.” He snapped his fingers about the vial, just as a slight tremor shook the contents. “Lyrium. It’s all that we need so that we can do what needs to be done. Give us that, and no Chantry lackey or blighted robe has a scrap of power over us.” He leaned forwards conspiratorially. “And that’s why we’re here in this miserable corner of Orlais, Nicolas. People like you and me are fighting tooth and nail to get out from under the Chantry’s boot heel.”

He set the vial in Nicolas’ palm and removed his hand slowly, as if he was reluctant to let go. Maker knew Nicolas could sympathise.

“It’s—” He trailed off, word half-finished.

Connall smirked, eyes glittering with reflected light as he met Nicolas’ curious gaze. “Red, yes. Don’t worry about that. It’s just an additive so you can tell it’s not normal lyrium,” he reassured Nicolas with a dismissive wave of his hand. He barked out a harsh laugh. “You might notice some other differences, but it’s still lyrium. If maybe a little more … potent. Nothing you can’t handle if you’re a halfway decent templar.”

Nicolas cradled the veil in his palm and peered at it. It was pleasantly warm even through the protective layer of his glove. Bright against the dark leather, it was a tiny little cylinder of glass that seemed far too delicate for the precious substance it held. A normal vial held perhaps twice as much. He was almost disappointed. Almost. The rest of him was just eager to take it. He hadn’t yet had a chance to collect his draught this morning.

Aside from the colour, it actually looked quite similar to normal Chantry lyrium. It wasn’t the captivating blue glow to which he was accustomed, but it still glowed. He watched how the liquid seemed to almost adhere to the glass as he rolled it in his palm. Even the consistency was the same.

He squinted against the dim light leaking into the room. Unlike the steady glow of Chantry lyrium, this seemed to pulse slowly, like a heartbeat.

“Why the secrecy, Ser, if you don’t mind?” he asked, glancing briefly up at Connall. “I can understand that perhaps the supply is limited, but surely there’s no harm in others knowing there’s a replacement source coming?”

“Need to know basis,” he replied with a shrug of one shoulder and a false smile. He folded his arms and straightened from his slouch, smile becoming a little less friendly. “In fact, you don’t speak to anyone about this until Fornier approves it. Clear?”

That had Nicolas stiffening with sudden wariness. “It’s just lyrium, Ser. I don’t understa—”

“Secrecy, Nicolas, until our supply chain is up and running. I’m sure you can understand that, just like I’m sure you don’t want to turn down this opportunity.” He paced closer Nicolas, one hand drumming an uneven beat on the pommel of his sword. “I hear Ghislain’s lyrium supply was… unstable. Withdrawal isn’t something I’d recommend.”

“Of course, I apologise, Ser,” Nicolas protested quickly, heart racing a little faster at the veiled warning. “It’s just a little strange is all. Barracks rumour…”

Connall smiled easily and slapped a gauntleted hand on Nicolas’ shoulder. “Nothing to worry about.” He inclined his head to indicate the vial. Nicolas found he had curled his fingers painfully tightly around the glass. “From now on, you’ll be given red lyrium. Take the ration and then you can be off. Before I’m tempted to take it on your behalf,” he added with a snort.

Nicolas found he wasn’t quite sure whether Connall was joking. He was glad when the other man backed away to lean by the sealed chest.

“I can take the draught the normal way, I assume, Ser?”

“Exactly the same as you would usually,” Conall confirmed. “But I’ll need you to take this one now,” he ordered. “Just to make sure you don’t react unexpectedly.”

Nicolas barely managed to avoid giving him a dubious frown in response. Maker knew what kind of reaction Connall expected. He had been taking lyrium for eight years with no problems. The whole situation was bizarre.

Connall gestured for Nicolas to hurry up. “Andraste’s ass, it’s like you’ve never had lyrium before. Take the blighted draught, Knight-Templar.”

Nicolas uncorked the vial with a shrug. Lyrium was lyrium, even if it _was_ a different colour. He drained the contents in a smooth and practised movement. He closed his eyes as the liquid seared its way down his throat, smooth as the finest silk, if silk were woven from pure fire.

Lyrium had a metallic taste on the tongue, but this wasn’t quite the same. There were hints of something thicker and deeper in this red lyrium. An almost cloying richness. Oiled metal, white hot and fresh the forge. Burnt blood.

He made to offer the empty container to Connall, but froze with his hand half way out.

The vial fell from nerveless fingers. Nicolas didn’t hear it shatter. All he could hear was a roaring, shrieking melody. Savage and deadly and mesmerisingly beautiful.

His entire body ignited with agony, radiating out from his heart in incandescent waves. Every bone must surely have shattered into countless fragments. His blood had been replaced by molten metal. His skin was being stripped from his body. He was breathing the frozen air of the void itself.

He dropped to one knee. He couldn’t see. Couldn’t hear or feel anything other than the unrelenting, insistent roar of lyrium’s power forcing its way into every fibre of his being. He was less than nothing against that overwhelming presence. A speck of dust lost in an ocean of fire.

His heart stopped for one beat. Then another.

Quite suddenly, as if a candle had been snuffed, the pain switched from unbearably excruciating agony to simply … there. Every nerve hummed with the sensation like a brutal caress.

“Maker give me strength,” he panted, resting a steadying hand on the flagstones. He felt like he was on fire. His heart was beating far too fast.

Distantly, he heard Knight-Lieutenant Conall’s voice. “Still conscious. I’d call that a success.”

Nicolas scrambled to his feet, ignoring the hand that Connall offered. He took a generous few steps back, away from the Knight-Lieutenant, away from the chest and what it contained. Everything was clearer and sharper than it had been in months. He could see the subtle amusement playing about Connall’s lips as he released the hilt of his sword. He could hear the rustle of cloth about his own legs as he shifted onto the balls of his feet, braced for a threat that wasn’t there. He was dimly aware that there was something too fast, too fluid about his movements, limbs reacting faster than even his best day on lyrium.

Connall had to have lied. For all that it had looked and tasted like lyrium. For all that he could feel its raw potential crackling in his blood and hear its beautiful, subtly discordant melody beating in his ears, it couldn’t have been lyrium. It was different. Better. Wrong.

Breathtaking.

“What in the Maker’s name did you give me?!” he demanded, the unexpected flare of anger overcoming the common sense that said you never ever questioned a senior officer. “If that was lyrium then I’m the Empress.”

The first draught of lyrium they received during initiation brought pain, but that was a special concentrated infusion. Even that pain had been nothing compared to the brief moments of pure, refined agony granted by this red lyrium. And it certainly hadn’t left a lasting pain like this.

“It _is_ lyrium, although it’s far, _far_ better than what the Chantry gave us. Although I’m afraid the part about the colour being an additive was a lie,” Connall replied with an unapologetic shrug. He patted the chest possessively. “It’s a beautiful thing, Nicolas. Be grateful for what you've been granted.”

He gave Nicolas a few more instructions to which he could barely pay attention. Asked a few questions that he vaguely recognised as basic assessments of his reason. He felt a burning urge to do something, anything, to use the restless energy vibrating in tense muscles and raw nerves.

He could hear the chorus of the lyrium song soaring in unpredictable intervals, stronger and more captivating than he had ever heard it. And different too. Deeper and with a savage power that was edged with something he couldn’t name. He could listen for eternity and never grasp the subtleties. He could spend a lifetime trying to recapture the exhilaration of that first agonising taste. With lyrium, a templar knew they had been granted the barest thread of a connection to something far greater. The Maker. Or something else. Normal lyrium held a pale shadow of that awareness compared to what he felt now. The pain was surely worthwhile. There was true understanding just out of reach, hovering somewhere beyond the throbbing beat of the melody.

It was— Maker above. He wanted, no, _needed_ another. It was nothing like normal lyrium. Nothing at all.


	5. Crimson Song

 

Nicolas had never hated mages. Granted, genuine hate hadn't been a particularly common attitude in quiet Ghislain, but there had been some who felt that way. He hadn’t even especially distrusted them as many of his fellow templars did. It had been his duty to protect, to guard, to keep secure. And sometimes, when a mage became an irredeemable threat to themselves and others as an unwilling abomination or willing maleficarum, to kill. His opinion one way or the other hadn’t mattered. He’d simply done his duty and maintained his faith in their calling. Was this pain and the throbbing, insistent melody a reward for that unswerving loyalty? Was it a punishment?

Reliable. Dutiful. Follows orders. All traits drilled into him from early childhood in the Order. Essential to properly serve the Maker, or so he had thought. It was a given that superior officers weren’t required to tell their subordinates everything, but it was difficult to justify being lied to outright by people he was supposed to trust with his life. If he was required to sacrifice himself for the greater good, he would do it. But that sacrifice had to be valued. It was why the Order had abandoned the Chantry, after all.

Nicolas stretched out a hand to brace himself against a wall as another, stronger spasm of pain clawed at his heart. He wasn't quite sure where he was. One overgrown corner of the keep looked much like another, and his attention had hardly been focused on the unfamiliar route as he had left Connall and his chest of red lyrium.

It felt almost as if there was a small war being fought, with his body as the battleground. A lurch one direction as Chantry lyrium's subtler influence tried to rise over the irregular pulse of red lyrium. Then a lurch the other as red lyrium surged back to its more insistent supremacy. It took more effort than he was willing to admit to keep a hold of the contents of his stomach.

The pale light of a new dawn was filtering through a broken window just above him. He needed to collect his ly— no, the normal lyrium offered to the rest of them wouldn't be enough. It might never be enough again. But still, he had duties to attend to. He knew he had to get back to the lower keep, but the wall seemed to be the only thing keeping him standing.

He groaned faintly and rested his head against the uneven stone walls, praying it would ease the pain that throbbed in time with the lyrium song.

Maker. He really did want another vial.

“Nicolas? Nicolas,” a voice called out from behind him. “You really shouldn't be here.”

“Knight-Lieutenant Coutte brought me here,” Nicolas replied absently. Granted it wasn't actually where Coutte had left him, but it was vaguely true, at least.

His hazy awareness belatedly informed him of the speaker’s identity. An flare of anger built up behind the pain in his skull. He barked out a harsh laugh and turned around to lean against the wall, arms folded as he glared at the arrival. His limbs still didn't seem to be reacting quite as they should, moving a little more quickly than he seemed to expect.

“Knight-Corporal. I wish I could say this was a pleasant surprise.”

Etien looked up and down the passageway before coming to a stop in front of him. “I wouldn't have expected a Knight-Lieutenant to just leave you in this part of the keep. It’s off limits to Knights-Templar.”

The genuine look of anxiety on Etien’s face did little for Nicolas’ mounting resentment. He could accept that Etien might have finally decided to ignore him, even if it seemed unfair that Sybelle would feel the consequences of his decisions too. But this concern, after three weeks of indifference? It was unreasonable.

A hazy part of his mind was aware that this anger was utterly uncharacteristic, but the unsettling sense of unease died almost before he could acknowledge it.

“Then I won’t disturb you any longer, Knight-Corporal,” he replied acerbically, pushing away from the wall. The pain was still there, but it seemed almost irrelevant now. “I would hate to make it more difficult for you to avoid me.”

Etien pulled back with a pained smile. “I deserve that, I suppose, although it’s not the reason you think.”

“Then what?” Nicolas snapped. “Did you remember that Knights-Corporal don’t fraternise with Knights-Templar?”

“Are you—” Etien's expression turned from surprised to bleak. “Oh. Maker,” he murmured. “You've been given the new rations.”

Nicolas’ eyes narrowed. His mind might be hazed with the compound buzz of pain and lyrium, but he had enough sense to remember what Connall had said. He struggled to rein back the flare of anger. The anxiety surfaced again, a little stronger this time. Lyrium wasn't like this. It dulled emotion, replaced it with clarity. It didn't reinforce it.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he replied, as flat and emotionless as he could manage. It would have sounded forced to a child, let alone a fellow Circle templar.

Etien shook his head. “Maker knows I'm familiar enough with the signs by now. Your Knight-Corporal should have been here to help you until you adjust.”

Part of Nicolas wanted to resist as Etien steered him into a sheltered corner with an arm around his shoulders, but he was glad for the support. His heart was racing with more than just the after effects of the lyrium now. He didn’t understand what was happening. This wasn't right.

There was a pleasant buzz across his shoulders where Etien's arm supported him, but he withdrew it far too quickly, settling Nicolas on a gnarled tree root before leaning against the wall opposite him.

“I suppose our timeline is tight, but I didn't expect them to move quite so quickly after...” He trailed off with a wince and pinched the bridge of his nose.

Suddenly the odd resonance he’d felt made sense. Nicolas’ eyes widened, momentary anger crumbling as another wave of pain washed over him, dulling his sharpened senses. “Maker have mercy, Etien. You've been taking it, haven’t you? How long? Were you taking it when you first joined us?”

“Of course not. I couldn't lie to your face like that. It's been more than three weeks.”

“Since you left to meet our allies, then. You could have told us,” he replied dully. “Or at least Sybelle.”

“If I told Sybelle, half the keep would have known within a day.”

Nicolas laughed quietly despite himself. Etien offered Nicolas another faint smile in response.

“Besides, I was ordered not to discuss the subject with anyone not taking it.” He offered Nicolas an apologetic shrug. “You noticed something was different within moments of speaking to me on my return. I couldn't take the risk of—”

He cut off as Nicolas groaned and squeezed his eyes shut. Another wash of pain had him lurch unsteadily, even in his seated position. He breathed a trembling sigh of relief when red lyrium’s song soared up again in all its complex glory.

When he opened his eyes again, Etien had crouched down in front of him. He glanced down the passage again before pulling a pouch from a pocket and dropping it into Nicolas’ lap. “Elfroot. It will help until you adapt.”

“Until I adapt, meaning this is to be expected, I suppose.” Nicolas scrubbed at his face. He couldn't imagine how he was supposed to function when he felt as if his nerves were on fire. He could understand why Etien had looked so ill after his return. Maker knew how he managed to seem so indifferent to the pain. “This can’t be right. What kind of lyrium is this?”

“It’s… different,” Etien allowed, focus seeming to turn inwards for a moment. He blinked and looked briefly across at Nicolas. “Arguably, it’s better.” 

Nicolas laughed humourlessly. “Arguably.” Dried leaves crackled as he lifted the pouch and offered it back to Etien. “I won’t take what’s yours. I can endure the pain if it’s what the Maker requires of me.”

“I don't need it any longer, and I can get more if I do. Take it.” Etien backed away to stand opposite him again. “I don’t suppose Connall briefed you properly, and your Knight-Corporal isn't here, so I’ll do his job for him. Although in truth, none of us can truly claim to know what we’re doing. Red lyrium isn't what we know, Nicolas.”

The itch to do something had risen up full force again. Nicolas rose smoothly to his feet. He had always been taller than Etien, but he seemed to notice the difference more now than he had before. “I think you’ll find that I've been made quite aware of that.”

“I can understand if you want to hate me for concealing this, but you will listen. I’d rather you not get hurt,” Etien snapped, matching Nicolas’ glare.

"I'm not a child, Knight-Corporal, for all that you tried to treat me like one."

"No, but I have some experience in this, for what little that's worth."

Nicolas took in a painful breath and settled back with a gestured apology. "Please."

“These erratic flares of emotion are to be expected. You will find a new equilibrium given time and proper mental discipline.” Etien gave a quick rueful smile. “Mostly. Take what you’re given. That helps the adjustment period go smoothly. You will be faster. Stronger. Your templar abilities will improve dramatically. A few days and the discomfort won’t matter to you any more.”

“Surely I deserve more than that. Where does this lyrium come from? What are we doing here? Why is there so much secrecy? You must know something.”

“I only know a little, and what I do know, I can’t say. I’m sorry, Nicolas.”

“I know less know than when I left Ghislain. If this is a test of my faith, it’s a cruel one.”

Etien looked pained. “Have faith that there _is_ a reason for us being here.”

“Thank the Maker Sybelle isn’t here,” Nicolas replied flatly. “The supply of faith in Suledin Keep is stretched thin as it is. If there's nothing more you can say, I'll leave you be.”

“I truly wish I could say more. But if you have any concerns about your new lyrium rations, you can speak to me. I don’t know any more than anyone else, but it’s the least I can offer.”

Nicolas studied Etien cautiously. “I think it might be wiser for both of us if we continue to keep our distance.”

“No doubt,” Etien acknowledged wearily. “Regardless. The offer is there if you need it.”

The distant sound of muffled voices carried towards them from deeper in the keep. Nicolas backed away further, pouch of elfroot clenched in his hand. “Thank you for the advice, Etien.”

He turned on a heel and began to walk away, the insistent throb of the lyrium song humming painfully in his blood and whispering in his mind.


	6. A Subtle Madness

"Lockdown?”

The quarry worker stared at Nicolas in utter bewilderment, then at the other templars blocking the exit. Templars on red lyrium all. He heard it every moment now. It pervaded his increasingly more unsettling dreams and followed his every waking moment, a constant backdrop to everything he did. Perhaps the man thought he could somehow talk his way out, but this was a duty with which Nicolas was more than familiar. There had been a procedure for lockdowns in the Ghislain Circle, just like any other. It was always an action of last resort, but sometimes it was necessary. An abomination found amongst the Enchanters. A collapse in the eastern stretch of the curtain walls following a storm. Keep the mages secure until the security threat was resolved. Every templar knew how to handle the situation and, ideally, how to limit the risk of escalation. That these people weren't mages and this wasn't a Circle didn't change the procedure.

“Knight-Captain Fornier’s orders,” Nicolas replied evenly. “We have been informed that there is a security risk.”

“I don’t understand, Ser Templar.” He shifted his bag of tools from one hand to the other, glancing over his shoulder at the others milling behind him. “It’s getting dark. We must leave before the path back to Sahrnia becomes too dangerous.”

He flicked out an arm to block the worker from passing. “Knight-Captain Fornier will explain shortly.”

Nicolas stared blandly into the middle distance as the worker continued to protest. The lyrium song was strong than usual today, vibrating deep in his bones. Only a week, but it had dug itself a little deeper every day. He couldn't fathom how he had ever managed without its comforting presence. It had made him faster and stronger. It had washed away the numbing calm of Chantry lyrium and made the world as crisp and sharp as the edge of a blade. The irregular nausea had faded after the first few days, smothered by each new vial of red lyrium. The gentler melody of Chantry lyrium rose up only rarely now, and he didn't welcome it when it did. The raw power crackling in his blood and strengthening his muscles was astounding. But the pain humming in every nerve ending had stayed, just as Etien had said it would. He found it didn't matter much. It bolstered his reactions and sharpened his senses. It was a reassuring constant, like the hypnotic beat of the lyrium song.

The subdued murmur of conversation rose to a clamour as Knight-Captain Fornier swept into the quarry, Nicolas and the others in the cordon parting and reforming smoothly to allow him and the Knights-Lieutenant with him to pass. These people couldn't recognise Templar ranks by sight, but it was obvious that he was more important than the Knights-Templar keeping them confined. If only they knew that they were no more likely to get real answers out of the Knight-Captain than the rest of them were.

The source of that boundless energy that had all three moving with such restless and fluid grace was blindingly obvious to Nicolas now. He could mark it on all the officers now that he knew what to look for, right down to the most junior Knights-Corporal. Every one of them was taking red lyrium. They probably had been since at least their arrival in Emprise du Lion. Just as he and Sybelle had assumed, what felt like a lifetime ago. The rank and file were always the last to receive any information or privileges.

Fornier drew to a halt in front of the gathered workers, his ever-present right and left hands, Connall and Erasmus, to either side of him. Nicolas fought down a flare of resentment at the sight of Connall’s casual smile and relaxed stance. There was no denying that red lyrium was … astounding. And perhaps the ‘special assignment’  _was_  a privilege. Not many Knights-Templar from Ghislain had been transferred to the new rations. But he didn't appreciate being taken for a fool. Erasmus was a sickly ghost to Fornier’s other side. His flawless poise was a stark contrast to a gauntness that seemed to be worsening every day.

The White Spire and Kirkwall, given precedence over Ghislain as always. The obvious conclusion now was that they were the source, or at least the earliest adopters of red lyrium, privileged enough to know their goal in Emprise du Lion.

Fornier’s smile was perfectly composed as he looked over the gathered workers. He waited for them to fall silent before raising his voice. “No doubt you are all wondering why you have been prevented from leaving. Allow me to clarify. I am told that today, the last of the quarry’s preparations was completed.” He gave the politely minute bow of a Knight-Captain to a Chantry sister. “Admirable work. Your assistance has been of immeasurable value to us these past weeks. Unfortunately, there is still work to be done.”

Connall detached himself from beside Fornier and began to direct other templars as they filed into the quarry. Some joined the steel ranks keeping the workers penned in. Others hauled crates deeper into the passages. Nicolas fixedly tracked those with his eyes, heart racing in sudden anticipation. He wasn't the only one, judging by the rigid posture of the man beside him. There was no mistaking the faint hum that suffused the air around the crates. There was lyrium in there. Red lyrium.

“We find ourselves in the vital second phase of our endeavours in Emprise du Lion,” Fornier continued. “Given the delicacy of this phase, I must ensure that an appropriate level of security is maintained. Hence the lockdown and the increased templar presence. You will forgive us for the inconvenience. Rest assured that you are helping us to achieve a noble goal.”

A brave soul spoke up from the huddles of workers. “And what goal  _is_  that exactly, Ser Templar?”

Knight-Captain Fornier continued smoothly, as if he hadn't heard. “Fine volunteers such as yourselves will be rewarded by the Maker.” He stood tall in his gleaming armour with a wide smile that was all teeth and his hand wrapped comfortably about the hilt of his sword. A gesture took in the still ranks behind him. “I along with my brothers and sisters of the Templar Order thank you for your continued service.”

He turned on a heel, Knight-Lieutenant Erasmus a grey shadow behind him. “None of them leaves,” he murmured as he stalked back through the cordon of templars. “The heretics’ appearance in Val Royeaux suggests they are gaining traction. I will not have our position compromised now that we are on the verge of making real progress.”

“How long do you want them kept here, Ser?

“Until I see results, at the very least. I find myself less optimistic about the outcome than General Samson. Have funds and provisions sent to Mistress Poulin as payment for their extended employment.”

“As ordered, Ser,” Erasmus replied with a sharp salute and sharper smile.

Glittering bloodshot eyes set deep in sunken sockets passed over Nicolas as Erasmus swept through the cordon and out of the quarry. Nicolas couldn't help but shudder in sympathy. Or disgust. He looked like a man suffering from a plague, prominent veins spidering up from underneath his armour and over pallid skin to claw at hollow cheeks. The feverish blush in his cheeks was the only colour in him. He needed a mage healer, or a proper Circle-trained apothecary at the very least. It looked like lyrium was the only thing keeping him alive and functioning.

“Ser Agrican.” Knight-Corporal Laval’s bark drew Nicolas’ attention away from his discreetly fascinated observations. “With me.”

Nicolas peeled away and stood to attention in front of Laval. Aside from providing Nicolas’ new red lyrium ration each day, his own Knight-Corporal had barely acknowledged the change in circumstances. Without Etien's help that first day, the transition would have been far more disconcerting. It had not improved Nicolas’ opinion of his direct superior. It had been hard in recent days to keep that resentment properly subdued.

“Orders, Ser?” he requested neutrally.

“I'm assuming I don’t need to tell you the value of what’s in those crates,” he stated, eyeing Nicolas suspiciously. “You’re assigned to north-east sector. You make certain that no one — yourself included — takes anything they shouldn't and you make absolutely certain that none of the workers leaves. You’ll be relieved at midnight by Ser Harper.” He studied the templars hauling crates with narrowed eyes before continuing. “Knight-Lieutenant Connall has briefed the White Spire on the procedures. Yours is a supervisory role only. Understood?”

“Understood,” he confirmed with a crisp salute.

Cartier’s observation that their duties bore resemblance to the Circle seemed far more fitting now. Keep them under watch. Keep them confined. Lyrium merited that kind of secrecy. Their quiet speculations in that remote waystation had been right after all. Their reason for coming to the Emprise du Lion had been related to lyrium. Quite what that relation was remained a mystery, for now.

-

The workers didn't chatter like they had done in the preceding weeks. There was no conversation. No smothered laughter as someone told a joke. They simply worked, with the unmistakeable demeanour of people trying to make themselves as small as possible, avoiding too much unwanted attention.

The workers cast wary glances at Nicolas when they thought he wasn't looking. He had served in a Circle for eight years. The feeling of being observed was a familiar one, and these people didn't have half the practice at covertly watching as a Circle resident did. It was the same wary tension there had been in the months and weeks before the Circles had collapsed entirely, when communications had stuttered to a halt but everyone had known that something was deeply, irrevocably broken. Just as it had been then, he had transformed into something different in their eyes. Less the remote guardian, more the cold steel and sharp blades reserved for demons and maleficarum.

A part of him felt ashamed, just as it had done before the Circles had collapsed. But that shame was balanced by a growing part of him that was glad for the healthy respect the workers were showing. He had trained for more than ten years whilst these people toiled in a quarry. If Knight-Captain Fornier had felt the need to initiate a lockdown, it followed that the people here weren't to be trusted. Respect would keep them in line. The Order had been denied that respect, taken advantage of, for far too long.

Nicolas blinked to clear the swirl of paranoid thoughts. His focus drifted away from the workers back to the crystal shard nestled in its bed of straw. A splinter the length of his forearm, it gleamed a vibrant crimson in the twilight gloom of the quarry.

Few people outside of the Deep Roads had ever actually seen raw lyrium. It arrived at Templar garrisons or Circles in its processed form. Concentrated liquid for the templars, dilute for the mages, and dust for its portability or use in crafting. Even so, there was no mistaking that soft gleam. Maker knew where something so valuable could possibly have come from. Even a single piece of normal lyrium that size would surely have cost hundreds, if not thousands, of coins.

It was the sound that was the most fascinating. Even from his station at the far wall of the hollow, he could hear its soft call. For all that the workers wouldn't have the sensitivity of a templar to lyrium, they must have felt something too. It seemed unlikely they even knew what the substance in front of them was, let alone its astounding importance. And yet they cast curious, almost possessive glances at the thin sliver of gleaming crimson as they worked.

At the direction of the other templar in the hollow, one of the workers walked hesitantly up to the crate and cradled the lyrium shard in both hands. Nicolas winced in almost physical pain as the man almost immediately dropped it with a grunt of surprise. He offered a brief prayer of thanks that it had been given a soft landing in the straw filling the crate. The man shook his hands as if burned and glared at the other templar. It seemed the raw substance held the same heat as the processed form flowing through his veins.

The next attempt was more cautious, shard gently wrapped in cloth bindings and hauled up to the emplacement suspended over the centre of the hollow. It settled into place with a dissonant crystalline ring. A soft hum vibrated through the chains holding the structure in place before dying away. Maker knew what it was supposed to actually do, but it was fascinating.

Almost total darkness had fallen on the quarry now. The gentle red glow from above illuminated the rapt attention on the upturned faces of the workers for a moment before they turned as a group towards their templar supervisor.

“We’ve finished the task,” the spokesman said, indicating the crystal resting in its cradle above. “I assume we will be allowed to return home now?”

“Our orders are for you to remain here until otherwise ordered,” the other templar replied flatly. “Food and a place to rest will be provided shortly.”

“Remain—” The spokesman cut off, sharing a stunned look with his colleagues. Nicolas recognised him now. The same man who had told him the story about the Tower of Bone. “What for?”

It didn't take a templar to recognise that the group were growing agitated. Nicolas strode forwards from his sentry position to assist. The soft bloody glow of the lyrium resting above them them caught on smooth planes of armour as he exchanged a quick glance with his fellow templar.

“Is there a problem?”

The spokesman nodded vigorously. With his helm distorting his voice and concealing his face, Nicolas would be unrecognisable to him. “No one said anything about staying here indefinitely. Let us leave.”

“I'm afraid that’s not possible. The lockdown is still in effect. ”

Until he saw results, Knight-Captain Fornier had said. Nicolas couldn't say what results were expected, and he certainly didn't have the authority to pass on that information.

“I really don’t see the necessity for all this ‘security’,” the spokesman protested. He pointed up at the lyrium above, as if Nicolas could forget it and the building hum resonating in his blood. “An overgrown glowstone can’t be that important.”

The other templar folded his arms. “Leave security concerns to us.”

“I’m no mage. You don’t have the authority to order us around.”

Nicolas took a step closer to the spokesman. He looked so slight and frail compared to a pair of fully armed and armoured templars. “We  _do_  have that authority,” he retorted curtly. Maker. It was hard to keep his thoughts straight with the crystal directly above him. The pain humming in his nerve endings was worse here, and it mattered less. “You’re employed on a quarry that is the rightful property of the Templar Order, lawfully purchased from your noble landowner.”

They might have the authority, but precisely what were they permitted to do to keep these people secure and under control? Mages in the Circle had loved to argue too, but he was finding his stock of patience to be rather less generous than it should have been.

“I won’t be bullied.”

He made to push past. Nicolas’ hand shot out, metal gauntlet digging painfully tightly into the man’s upper arm. His other hand wrapped around the comfortably worn grip of his sword. The beautiful discordance of the lyrium song was howling in his ears. Every muscle was taut with a barely-controlled need to do something. Anything. It really didn't matter what was permitted and what wasn't.

“You’ll stay as long as we say,” he hissed. "Sit and be quiet. Am I clear?”

“Sweet Andraste,” the man gasped, flinching away as best as he could. His eyes flicked down to where Nicolas’ hand had settled about his sword. “Perfectly clear. We’ll wait.”

The wide-eyed shock seemed to sweep away a sudden haze that had fallen over his mind. Nicolas heart thudded in sudden fear. What in the Maker’s name had come over him?

“Maker,” he gasped. His hastily released the man, hands darting far away from his weapon. As harmless as an armed templar could be. “My deepest apologies. I shouldn't have…”

But it was too late. The man was backing hurriedly away, almost stumbling over his own feet as he tugged his colleagues with him to sit in the shelter of a spindly scaffold. He settled down with his back against the hollow’s rugged stone walls, rubbing at his arm, gaze fixed on Nicolas.

The other templar shrugged at him. “Don’t bother apologising. It’s an effective way to make this an uneventful watch. I’ll leave you to keep an eye on them whilst I ensure the provisions are sent in.”

Nicolas nodded a vague agreement. He paced back to his sentry position and clasped shaking hands behind his back. His head was a little clearer here, but he could still remember the angry haze that had filled him for those brief moments. Something was wrong. He’d never reacted like that in his life. Not as a recruit and certainly not once he’d been initiated. That kind of bald threat might have been justifiable against a particularly aggressive mage, but it certainly wasn't against a harmless civilian. The man wouldn't have been able to hurt Nicolas if he had tried. He was unarmed and defenceless.

He passed the rest of the watch in uneasy silence. The miserable huddle of workers ate their provisions without a single complaint, wrapping themselves in the blankets with which they’d been provided as the night wore on. He spotted the occasional reflected gleam as their eyes turned to watch him or study the crystal hanging above them. They weren't sleeping any more than he was.

Long night watches always passed slowly, but this one passed far too slowly for comfort. He was pitifully grateful to see Harper arrive as his relief. He passed on the shortest possible briefing and an even shorter farewell before hurrying away from the captivating, beautiful horror of the unbroken lyrium song.

It took an effort not to curse as he spotted Sybelle standing watch over the Tower of Bone forward camp. There was no way to avoid passing her on his way back to the keep, but he couldn't face speaking to her right now. There was a hollow ache in his chest. A gap he hadn't even noticed until the humming presence of raw red lyrium had filled it. Was he losing his mind?

“Nicolas!” she called out as he approached. “You've been assigned to the quarry? No one seems to know what’s happening in there.”

“The Knight-Captain ordered a lockdown,” he replied curtly, barely slowing. “Special assignment only.”

“Wait,” she called out as he continued past her. “You've barely spoken to me all week. Have you been avoiding me?”

“I don’t have time for this, Sybelle,” he replied curtly.

“Nicolas, what in the Maker’s name is wrong?” she demanded, eyes flicking over him as she tried to find some clue. There would be nothing for her to see, not unless she could see the blood flowing through his veins.

“Another time, Sybelle.”

He pulled away, but not before he saw her face fall. She stood frozen as he hastened away, hand still half outstretched as if she had meant to stop him.

Something in his chest lightened as he strode towards the run-down remains of abandoned homes that littered the path back to the keep. Etien was there, briefing a few men from his squad in the lee of one particularly decrepit house. Whether it was pure chance, or the Maker’s will, here was the one person to whom he could speak.

True to their agreement, Etien barely acknowledged Nicolas beyond a slight nod as he passed. His face was as unreadable as it had been for weeks, but he had offered an ear. Nicolas prayed the offer remained open.

Nicolas changed direction and approached with a crisp salute. “A moment of your time, Ser. Please.”

“Of course, Ser Agrican,” Etien replied. He dismissed his subordinates and turned to face Nicolas fully, one hand resting on the pommel of his sword, the other clasped behind his back. The image of a professional templar. “Did you have a message for me?” He took in Nicolas’ barely-concealed agitation in one quick glance and lowered his voice. “Or was it something else?”

“You said erratic emotions. A new equilibrium. I could accept that. But this?” He paused and scrubbed at his face. “Maker, but I hope your offer to listen still stands. I doubt Knight-Corporal Laval would care.”

Nicolas heard a short intake of breath from Etien. “Of course the offer still stands. What happened?”

“Maker forgive me. I nearly drew my blade on a civilian. He wouldn't have been a threat if he’d been wielding a sword as long as my arm, but I almost drew on him. A  _civilian_ , Etien. You can't say this is to be expected too.”

“You didn't actually draw on him though?”

“No, but it should never have been a thought in the first place.”

A tension seemed to leave Etien. “Thank the Maker,” he breathed. Nicolas couldn't help but notice that Etien’s hand had drifted from the pommel of his sword to its grip. “Control is what matters. That you've lasted this long is as good a sign as anything.”

For a moment, Nicolas turbulent thoughts drifted into a moment of the old calm and clarity. A madman ranting about a song that no one else could recognise. Accusing his superiors of having done something to him. The evidence was obvious in hindsight, and not favourable.

“You've lasted this long,” he quoted. “The man who lost his mind. Who you stopped me from helping. I suppose I must conclude that red lyrium is more dangerous than simple pain.” When Etien’s expression closed up, he leaned forward and continued. “You hear stories of initiates who are ‘retired’ soon after their initiation. Not everyone can cope with their first draught, for all the training we’re given. And of course there are those who lose their reason over years of extended use. So,” he said carefully. “Are you telling me that I might also lose my mind, Etien?”

Etien exhaled and closed his eyes. “Do you want an answer to that?”

“I do.”

“It could happen,” Etien replied reluctantly. “We can’t work out why. It's a subtle kind of madness. The signs have been different every time.” He hesitated and resettled his hand on the pommel of his sword. “Violent outbursts are one of the issues that the junior officers have been warned about.”

“What happened to that man last week then?” He gestured to take in the distance gatehouse of Suledin Keep, the charred space where the funeral pyre had burned. “Sybelle heard that there have been disappearances. What about them? Did they lose their minds too?”

“I can’t answer that.”

Nicolas folded his arms. “Can’t, or won’t, Knight-Corporal?”

“Drop the subject, Nicolas.”

Etien’s curt reply held the full force of an irate officer. A part of Nicolas bristled, but he clutched for control before the emotion spiralled out of his control again. There was nothing to be gained here.

He took a step back instead, shaking his head slowly. "I was a fool to assume you might be trusted. You could have warned me." A cold trickle of suspicion wormed its way down his spine. "Did you want this?"

Etien's eyes widened in sudden dismay. "Maker, no. I wouldn't wish madness on anyone, least of all you." He gestured helplessly. "For all I knew, warning you might have made it more likely. Please believe me."

Maker knew he needed someone whose intentions seemed genuine. He hardly knew his own thoughts any more. But perhaps he was naive to continue to want to trust Etien. This instinct could be no more reliable than the paranoia and rage that had wormed its way into his mind in the quarry.

"We don't know what causes it and we can't heal it, Nicolas. I gave as much help as I could," Etien continued faintly. There was a pause and a sigh. He made to reach out before dropping his hand back to his side and clenching his fist. "Forgive me."

Nicolas nodded helplessly. In the end, how could he not?

“Maker,” he whispered. “The sacrifices required of our service to You have always been high. Grant me the strength to face this trial and continue as Your servant.”

Connall seemed to believe that faith didn’t matter, but he refused to believe that was true. Faith was the one constant. It had been essential in his early days as a new initiate, struggling with the realities of what life demanded of him as a templar. It had steadied him when the only barrier between him and certain death had been his blade and the gift of lyrium. They might be called to confine a mage for their own safety or to kill an abomination that had once been a child. Faith had seen him through those challenges too. And when he had discovered what lyrium might do, it had given him the resolve to ignore the nebulous threat of losing his mind. That threat simply hovered a little closer now. Faith would have to be enough now as it had always been.

“Maker knows you’ve never lacked for mental discipline, Nicolas. You’re probably less at risk than I am."

“I've learned my strengths and my limits. I pray it’s enough, but I’ve made more than my fair share of mistakes. I—” Nicolas shrugged and avoided Etien’s searching gaze. If the Maker was setting him tests, he was almost certainly failing them in quick succession. He had to leave. “Maker. What am I doing? I've kept you long enough. Excuse me.”

“Wait, Nicolas,” Etien called out hurriedly, drawing him to a halt with a fleeting hand on his arm. “If you notice anything else of concern, no matter how minor, speak to me. Please. This is new to us all and we don’t understand it half as well as we should.”

Over Etien’s shoulder, Nicolas spotted Sybelle watching them from a distance, arms folded and a frown creasing her brow. He couldn’t say whether it was suspicion or concern. After weeks of Etien avoiding them both, he should have been more careful. Too late for regrets now.

Nicolas focused back on Etien and studied him with weary caution. That wasn't the blanket offer of advice that he had put forward a week ago. He could read Etien well enough to know that he wasn't talking in generalities any more.

“Something else is worrying you,” he stated.

“Yes. I'm not sure. Things are beginning to move quickly now, and I worry…” he sighed resignedly. “It’s nothing.”

“The offer goes both ways. You can talk to me, Etien. No vow changes that.”

Etien shook his head. “Not about this. I've given you enough concerns for one day anyway. Maker be with you, Nicolas. Be careful.”

There was nothing Nicolas could do to force Etien to speak. Not with the past hovering just behind them and certainly not as a mere Knight-Templar speaking to a Knight-Corporal. He offered a salute for the sake of his observer and stepped away with a helpless shrug. Too many secrets.

“And you, Etien.”

He began the walk back to the keep, accelerating faster and faster without realising, until his pace was closer to a jog. There was an endless supply of restless energy burning in his muscles. Changes were creeping up on him almost unnoticed. He tired far less quickly. Minor pains had become almost inconsequential against the constant background hum in his nerves. He was becoming a little stronger every day. He hadn't yet needed to wield his templar abilities, but he could feel their latent power in his blood. And of course, there was the constant captivating melody vibrating in his bones. Red lyrium offered so much more than Chantry lyrium. But what was it doing to his mind?

Everyone heard the stories eventually. If madness was a distant possibility by continuing to take lyrium, it was close to a certainty by stopping. Red lyrium’s strength could only make that likelihood greater. But he knew he couldn't even consider forsaking it now. The thought of losing it sent a shudder of fear through him.

“Maker give me strength,” he prayed quietly. A part of him wasn't even so sure it would be that bad to lose himself in the song forever.

He cast a quick glance over his shoulder as he walked. Sybelle was still standing, watching them both. Whatever conclusion she might have drawn, it couldn't have been good. But he couldn’t tell her the truth. Even if he was willing to disobey a direct order, there was no doubt in his mind that there would be severe penalties if she showed any sign of holding information she shouldn’t. If she was expelled in this remote region, she’d be dead before she could reach somewhere with any supplies at all, let alone black market lyrium. None of them had the coin for it anyway. There was really no other option but to obey orders, as much as he wanted to tell her everything. They shouldn’t have to keep secrets, but there was nothing else he could do.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Knight-Captain Fornier is an oddly satisfying person to write given that he's only a very minor character. He turns up, indulges in a bit of megalomania, and wanders off again.


	7. Allied Enemies

If there _was_ a demon possessing the Tower of Bone, Nicolas wondered what exactly it would make of the activity that had grown up around its feet in the weeks since their arrival. They were fully embedded in the region now. A forward camp at the Tower of Bone, another at Drakon's Rise. A quarry with tighter security and under closer control than a Circle. And a keep to call home. Or at least, a place to live. They ought to have been united under their single cause. Instead, they had fractured into new groups. Relationships shifted and reformed as those still taking normal lyrium found themselves isolated from a group that they couldn't yet identify and had yet been granted leave to join. Red lyrium called out, and the templars taking it followed.

To a casual observer, the meeting between the allies of the Elder One looked unbalanced. More than ten men and women stood opposite Knight-Captain Fornier and Knight-Lieutenant Erasmus at the foot of the Tower of Bone.

The parade ranks arrayed with their backs to the Suledin Keep path were far from casual observers. Two templars — even ones as obviously experienced as Erasmus and Fornier — could easily fall when so significantly outnumbered, but against mages, it was a slightly more equal encounter. To the surprise of the rank and file inhabiting Emprise du Lion, it had emerged that their allies under the Elder One were magisters out of Tevinter. The surprise was an unwelcome one, to say the least. After all Fornier’s talk of heresy, it was hard to believe and almost impossible to accept. If a pack of Magisters were considered to be an ally, the inquisition had to be on a level with Maferath himself.

These Tevinters might be allies, but that didn't mean the Order had to be friendly. When the meeting had begun, the magisters had been all sauntering arrogance, assuming the same superiority they held over the templars in their home country. But Fornier and Ersamus had made the difference implicitly clear. The Tevinters' casual arrogance had faded to a wary distaste as the conversation had progressed.

Knight-Lieutenant Erasmus' bright laugh was loud enough to carry over the barren ground to the watching ranks. For those that had the sensitivity to hear it, the metallic sharpness that edged the laugh carried the buzz of red lyrium. He turned briefly towards the mustered forces and waved a hand, saying something to their guests. Eyes glowing the sullen red of banked coals sparked from deeply shadowed sockets as he looked over them.

In the end, it hadn't been the continued incidents of madness amongst the templars that had forced Knight-Captain Fornier's hand. Nor had it been the extraordinary developments in the quarry. With assignments there restricted to those on red lyrium, that information had been contained on pain of expulsion for longer than anyone could have predicted.

Erasmus wasn't ill as they had assumed. He was proud of the changes red lyrium had wrought in him and hadn't made even a token attempt to hide it. Despite the gauntness and despite the ashen skin, he was stronger and faster than all of them now. He could best any templar on Chantry lyrium with barely any effort. But he was being consumed by that power. From up close, it was very nearly possible to see the faint gleam of red lyrium beneath his skin, giving him the illusion of a healthy glow. Red lyrium was killing him and keeping him alive. Templars on red lyrium worried that it would happen to them too. There was always a price to be paid. Whether it was the Chantry or the Order or even duty, their minds and bodies belonged to someone or something else.

Erasmus exchanged a mocking smirk with Knight-Captain Fornier at the unease that their guests tried and failed to hide behind haughty sneers. These Tevinter magisters didn’t know how to handle proper templars, and it showed. Nicolas wondered if they realised that the show of force was less a polite gesture of respect for an honoured guest and more a bald threat. Likewise Knight-Captain Fornier having greeted their guests with only a single one of his subordinates was a calculated insult. They tolerated these unexpected allies for the sake of their shared leader, not out of any sense of kinship, or even respect.

Knight-Captain Fornier turned a wide and utterly false smile on their guests as a pair of crates were hauled out onto the empty ground between them. The space between the groups had imperceptibly widened to a healthy distance as the conversation had progressed. Now they looked as though they wanted to back away even further.

Fornier levered open the lid of the first and held up a familiar vial of glowing red liquid, briefly displaying it to his audience. Nicolas swallowed against a suddenly parched throat. A sample of processed red lyrium, much like the first consignment recently dispatched to their brothers and sisters at their new headquarters in distant Therinfal Redoubt.

For an entire week, those templars on ‘special assignment’ in the quarry had struggled to understand what the point of all their efforts had been. They kept the quarry secure. They kept the workers confined, even when they began to show worrying signs that said that even a small quantity of lyrium had some kind of twisted influence on their minds. But nothing seemed to happen.

Suspended high above their heads, it had been impossible to spot that the crystals gracing every hollow of the quarry had been growing. Maker knew how, but it had spread.

At first the tiny flecks of red that had appeared in the dusty floor of the quarry had been easy to mistake for a trick of light. But then the profusion of crystalline shards had seemed to blossom almost overnight. Most of the growths were still barely above knee height, but they grew almost fast enough to be visible to the naked eye. The largest crystals seemed to be developing a life of their own, casting a light that throbbed in gentle symphony with the melody humming in his blood.

It was quite simply astounding. They could grow their own lyrium, free of the Chantry’s control over their supply or Orzammar’s monopoly. The sheer staggering value of the development made the secrecy and security more than understandable. Emprise du Lion had become one of the most significant Templar Order sites in Thedas. The Chantry had no military might without the Order, but they would never accept that templars had the key to their own independence here. And the Inquisition was reportedly expanding its influence, preparing to approach the Lord Seeker or — Maker forbid — the rebel mages as potential allies. They would never accept that the Order might be able to forge a path of its own.

Soon there would be enough lyrium for them all. Regardless of the changes that Erasmus had shown, the rest of the Order needed the lyrium before their supplies ran out or were cut off by the rebel mages.

Fornier settled the delicate vial back amongst its fellows in the protective bed of straw and moved on to the next crate. Maker knew what the precise effect on a mage might be, but consuming processed red lyrium at the high concentration required by a templar would likely leave them barely able to stand. Still, it probably wouldn’t do them any lasting harm.

It was the second crate that had their guests completely fumbling their act at being comfortable with the situation. Three pristinely perfect shards of raw red lyrium nestled in the second crate, fresh from the quarry. Each was the length of a longsword and sharp enough to cut to the bone.

Extended contact with raw lyrium was invariably fatal to a mage. Even being too close to it would be unpleasant for them. If even templars on Chantry lyrium found raw red lyrium to be uncomfortable, it had to be far worse for a mage.

Fornier closed the lid on the crate of processed lyrium, but he left the other unsealed as he strolled around to stand next to it, a hand idly tracing the facet of one of the crystals. He gave a wide gesture that took in the keep framed against the pale sky and the nearby quarry, a restrained smile hovering about his lips. Offering a tour, no doubt. He couldn’t want Tevinter magisters to stay any more than any other templar in their right mind, but it was blindly obvious that their guests would refuse anyway.

The leader shook his head with a white-lipped smile so thin it was barely there. He cast a nervous glance first at the open crate, then a downright nauseated one in the direction of the quarry. He had schooled his expression back into something that resembled confidence by the time he turned back to Fornier, but the widening of the Knight-Captain’s smile said he had read the reaction regardless.

Fornier gave a falsely disappointed shrug and gestured for the crates to be loaded onto a cart. The Tevinters’ relief as the raw lyrium was swaddled in cloth and sealed in a thick iron-bound chest was palpable from where Nicolas stood.

The farewells might actually have seemed friendly to someone less observant than the watching templars. But Erasmus’ hand remained fixed about the hilt of his sword and he held himself like a man waiting for the order to draw. His polite smile looked far too predatory on his gaunt features.

Fornier clasped hands with his counterpart and shook briefly. The magister jerked and his eyes narrowed suspiciously as Fornier withdrew his hand and offered a final farewell. Fornier had given no sign of it, and Nicolas was too far away to feel it, but evidently he had drawn on his abilities just enough to demonstrate what a templar could do.

The cart began to trundle away, wheels rattling over the uneven ground away from the Tower of Bone. Their guests followed at a pace just short of eager, giving their templar escort a wide berth.

Fornier watched them leave, arms folded and any illusion of friendly amicability gone. For all that Erasmus had been transformed into a living corpse, it was Fornier who looked more threatening. With eyebrows drawn down over a black scowl, he seemed a hair’s breadth away from drawing his sword and ordering a mobilisation of the templars waiting patiently behind him.

It was only when the squeak of the cart’s wheels and the rattle of marching templars had faded away completely that Fornier turned away and barked out a dismissal. He and Harper wended their way back to where the rest of Laval’s squad had been arrayed.

He dodged around a woman with her back turned to him, then paused, allowing Harper to walk on as the woman turned to face him. A familiar pair of eyes studied him flatly from behind the slit of her helm. Sybelle’s expression was the blank impassiveness of an on-duty templar as she removed her helm.

They didn’t keep secrets from each other, but there hadn’t been any choice. They hadn’t even argued when she had found out, as much as the red lyrium burning in his veins had urged him to. She hadn’t been angry, although she would have had every right to anger. The naked look of betrayal as she had found out the secret had been like a knife in the gut.

“Sybelle,” he murmured cautiously. “Hello.”

“Nicolas.” She hesitated and looked as though she meant to say something else. Whatever it was, she seemed to change her mind. Her lips pursed and she made a show of looking over his shoulder. “Where’s Etien?”

Nicolas winced. That she had seen him confiding in Etien had only made it worse. He hadn’t made that mistake again, but the damage had already been done.

“I haven’t seen him outside of my duties.”

She breathed out a soft laugh that said she didn’t believe him and shook her head wearily as she made to turn away.

He caught her shoulder. “There was no one else I could speak to, Sybelle. You think I could have gone to Knights-Lieutenant Connall or Coutte instead? Or Knight-Corporal Laval, Maker forbid?”

“So you said, but orders never stopped us from talking before,” she replied, shifting her shoulder so that his hand slid from her pauldron. “Maker above, we were sharing theories about red lyrium for weeks before we arrived here.”

“This was different, Sybelle. I could barely think straight. All I wanted was to speak to someone who I could trust to help me.” He sighed helplessly, hunting futilely for the right words. “Red lyrium is nothing like Chantry lyrium.”

She wouldn’t be able to understand yet that red lyrium was more than just another colour. For all its flaws, for all that he could still feel the pain humming in his nerves, weeks later, It was better in ways that couldn’t even be described. When she was given the chance to take it…

Nicolas shuddered and forced his thoughts onto a different path. Maker. He was uncomfortably close to sounding like the man who had lost his mind. That shadow always lurked over his shoulder. The enemy that couldn’t be fought.

She must have misread the reaction because her eyes narrowed. “You think I care about how much ‘better’ red lyrium is? I’ve heard that often enough since Fornier was forced to tell the rest of us lowly templars.” She stabbed a finger in Nicolas’ direction. “I certainly hope you’re telling the truth. Even if you are, confiding in him wasn’t fair on me and it certainly wasn’t fair on either of you.”

Thank the Maker he’d had long enough to adjust to red lyrium that he could maintain control and stop himself from overreacting to her aggressive gesture. “Andraste’s grace,” he growled in exasperation. “Of course I know that.”

“At least you admit it.”

“You know me better than anyone else, Sybelle. Would you really expect me to disobey a direct order? Or worse, to break vows sworn in front of the Maker and His Bride?”

“A little paranoia is justified, given the situation,” she replied with a grudging shake of her head. “But you could have had faith in me, Nicolas.” Her mouth twisted as she spoke, turning the word back on him. “ _You_ know _me_ too. I can keep secrets when they matter.”

“This was different.” Nicolas flicked a quick glance over his shoulder as Laval called his name before turning back to Sybelle. He began to back away, hand raised in helpless apology. “For what it’s worth, I’m still sorry.”

Instead of responding directly she resettled her helm on her head and shrugged one shoulder at him. “I suppose I’ll see how different it is soon enough. I was selected for tomorrow’s round of transitions to red lyrium.”

Nicolas hesitated on the edge of warning her about the agony and beauty to come. By the time he had made the decision she had faded back into the press, one identical templar amongst many.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to break these chapters up a bit. In an ideal world, that should have meant shorter chapters posted more often... In reality that just means I'll spend longer rewriting whole chunks before I decide to upload. This one in particular is almost unrecognisable compared to the original intended for this point in the story.


	8. Demons in Emprise du Lion

The rift made Nicolas ’ skin crawl. Active as it was now, it was almost impossible to look at directly. Rippling curtains of light lit the entire hollow in a sickly shade of green, the unnatural illumination of the Fade itself. No living creature should ever see the raw Fade. To have a rip in the Veil right at their doorstep was not particularly reassuring. And worse, it wasn’t the only one in the region any more.

They had tried everything they knew to seal them. A cleanse might force back demons that tried to push their way through, but the rift itself would recover in a matter of hours. Then Knight-Captain Fornier had established a rotation of templars to suppress it. But even with the strength granted by red lyrium, the best they could manage was to hold the edges closed. Every time their suppression stopped, it snapped back open again.

Knight-Captain Fornier had been forced to reluctantly admit that they lacked the knowledge to seal the tears. They had sufficient training to hold the suppression as long as they remained awake, but maintaining that level of focus and exerting their abilities for that length of time was hardly the best idea. There were enough difficulties with red lyrium without risking burning templars out too. That left the only option as regular patrols to check on the rift. Not particularly exciting, but it was an excuse to leave the keep and the quarry, even if just for a few hours.

There were a few demons around the rift now. Lesser shades so ephemeral that they were faint wispy smudges of darker grey against stone. Fail to spot the single glowing eye set in the centre of their elongated heads and you might miss seeing the demon entirely. It could make even a weak demon like this a threat to the untrained or the unobservant. Weak or not, a demon ’s claws were deadly.

Nicolas eased himself back out of view and rejoined Cartier.  “Only three shades. It must have been quiet recently.”

“Three?” Cartier leaned back against the craggy boulder behind him. “Hardly worth the trouble of this patrol. “

Nicolas tilted his head in the direction of the rift and tapped the hilt of his sword.  “We shouldn’t need any reinforcements from Drakon’s Rise. We can clear it and move on.”

“ _You_ might not need reinforcements, but I’d rather wait,” Cartier replied with a grimace. “The others will rendezvous here soon.”

“Right,” Nicolas sighed. “I would hate to see you lose your head to a shade.”

“You could sound a little less eager for that to happen.”

Nicolas ignored Cartier ’s peevish retort and began to pace aimlessly, half an eye on the paths from which the remainder of their squad would arrive. He likely could have taken on those three lesser shades even without Cartier’s help. He itched to do something more than standing watch and gentle patrols. A rift patrol assignment had actually been a relief. But as much as he hated to admit it, Cartier’s caution wasn’t an entirely ridiculous suggestion. It was impossible to predict when the rifts might spit out something more powerful than a handful of shades. Facing a Pride demon with only Cartier for support didn’t seem like the most sensible idea.

“Maker, Nicolas. Stand still,” Cartier blurted out suddenly, tucking gloved hands into his armpits. “You’re making me cold just looking at you.”

“Cold?” Nicolas stopped in front of Cartier and eyed him dubiously. He was sure he would have noticed if it had been cold. “What are talking about? It’s Bloomingtide.”

Cartier huffed out a visible plume of breath.  “Another advantage of red lyrium, I suppose? Yes. It’s cold. I can hardly feel my hands.”

Nicolas glanced up. Thick grey clouds masked a sky that had been a deep shade of blue only this morning. If he hadn ’t known the date, he would have sworn they were in the depths of winter. Yet it felt as warm as a summer’s day to him. 

“This must be what passes for spring in the Highlands.”

Cartier grimaced.  “I never would have expected to say this, but I’m beginning to believe Therinfal Redoubt would be better and it’s in  _ Ferelden _ . Maker knows what kind of flea-ridden pit the place is. ”

“It might not be the White Spire, but it certainly tells the Chantry that we no longer answer when they call.”

“There is that. But Ferelden. Really. A country still living in the Storm Age doesn’t give the best of impressions.” 

“You’d rather we build ourselves a replica of the Golden City and live there?” Nicolas replied dryly.

Cartier snorted out a laugh.  “Tell that to the Lord Seeker. He might actually do it. Did you hear that he punched a Revered Mother, just before they left Val Royeaux?”

“I heard,” Nicolas replied with a disbelieving shake of his head. “I wouldn’t have thought even the Lord Seeker would dare do that.”

“I’m just surprised it took him that long. I’m sure we’ve all been tempted.” 

Nicolas gave Cartier a wry smile and neutral shrug. There were a few from the monastery that he could think of, but he had a reputation to uphold.  “I wonder what’s happening with the Inquisition. Their ‘herald’ was there when the Order pulled out of Val Royeaux.”

“I’d prefer to hear that the rebel mages have finally been dealt with rather than to have to listen to Knight-Captain Fornier talk about the Inquisition again.”

“Surely you’re curious? Heretics or not, I hear it’s growing.”

“I suppose,” he replied with an indifferent shrug. “That friend of yours. Knight-Corporal Cime, was it?” 

Nicolas nodded mutely and prayed Cartier hadn ’t been paying enough attention to notice him stiffen slightly.

“Ask him. He must be willing to pass some information along.”

Nicolas cleared his throat.  “We haven’t spoken in over two weeks.”

“Oh?” Cartier waggled his eyebrows at Nicolas. “I suppose your options are a little more limited, but there are ways to regain a source of information like that. Not like there’s much else to do here.”

“Stop talking, Cartier,” Nicolas retorted heatedly.

“Maker, Nicolas,” Cartier exclaimed, casting a startled look at him. “It was just a joke.”

Nicolas folded his arms and glared at Cartier.  “A poor one.” 

“What do you care anyway? You’re celibate.”

“That has nothing to do with it,” he snapped.

Think of something else. Anything else. His fingers were tingling. Maybe it was just his imagination that had turned Cartier ’s expression into a mocking one, but he itched to punch his squad mate.

The demons drifting about the hollow had been a distant awareness at the back of Nicolas ’ mind throughout the conversation. Kept track of by his unconscious mind, but not an imminent threat. One of them shrieked suddenly. Whether it was at a bird or a stray breeze or something equally inconsequential, Nicolas didn’t know or care.

He reacted on purely instinctive compulsion. He had drawn his sword with a smooth flourish before the shriek had finished echoing. He was halfway to the hollow and at a full sprint by the time he had registered and discarded the fact that he might just be overreacting.

Maker, but it felt good to move. Red lyrium ’s pain thrummed in his blood, driving him onwards, fixing his mind with deadly focus on the threat in front of him. He didn’t have to think at all. His armour barely seemed to weigh anything. His blade felt like an extension of his arm.

Cartier hissed out a curse and jogged after Nicolas, sweeping his shield off his back. He fumbled his sword as he drew it. Cold hands, he had said. By the time Nicolas had reached the first shade, Cartier was already paces behind. 

“Nicolas!” he called out. “What are you doing?!”

The shade released a shriek as it spotted him, ephemeral form solidifying into a vaguely humanoid figure clad in hazy and torn rags. A lazy sweep of Nicolas ’ sword left it a pile of oily rags on the stony ground. The rift crackled angrily as a streamer of light spiralled away from the remains and was sucked back into the Fade. Maker knew if they killed these demons simply to have the rift spit them back out hours or days later.

Another shade shifted uncertainly just beyond, split between pursuing the closer threat or the weaker target that Cartier made.

Nicolas attacked before its meagre intelligence could make a decision. It slid off his sword, releasing a hissing rattle as it clawed feebly at his shield. Another swirl of energy swirled away towards the angry rip in the Veil.

“Nicolas!” Cartier called out as he pursued the final shade sloping away from him. 

Nicolas followed the line of his sword to the base of the rift. Jagged eruptions of energy heralded where a fresh crop of demons were attempting to force themselves into reality.

Another swirl of energy ripped past Nicolas and into the rift as Cartier called out an all clear. It was a seething mass of energy now, flares of lurid green shooting out with booming snaps as it gaped open wide, pulling the demons beyond.

Nicolas dashed forwards, drawing on the crackling power of red lyrium. It seemed almost eager as he reached for it, leaping towards him like it had a life of its own. The hollow echoed with a resounding thud as he released a cleansing burst of energy. Debris was sent whistling through the air by the wave of pressure. Sparks of bloody red lightning crawled across the ground, stifling the eruptions of Fade energy. They died away with a feeble hiss. The rift contracted too, shrinking to a knot of roiling green hovering above head height.

“Sweet Andraste!” Cartier exclaimed from behind.

Nicolas breathed in a slow breath, finding himself unable to muster up a reply. The wave of exultant joy and soaring lyrium song as he drew on his abilities had been  … unexpected. The rush of battle — even one as brief as that — was exhilarating in a way he hadn’t felt since being a recruit, before Chantry lyrium.

Maker. He wasn ’t even close to out of breath.

He shook off the daze and inspected the rift. It still crackled spitefully, but it had shrunk to no bigger than the width of his outstretched hand. It would return to its full size eventually, but it was as near to harmless as they could make until the next patrol was scheduled to pass through.

Cartier jogged up to him.  “What in the Maker’s name were you thinking, Nicolas?!”

Nicolas rubbed at his brow, more out of habit than anything else. There wasn ’t a single bead of sweat on his skin, despite the stuffy armour.

“It needed to be done,” he replied flatly. “I saw no reason to wait.”

Cartier look said just how little he believed the pitiful excuse. It might have been vaguely convincing if he hasn ’t sprinted away mid-argument. He didn’t care.

“Not all of us have red lyrium to-” Cartier began, before snapping his mouth shut on the rest of his retort and glaring over Nicolas’ shoulder. “Laval’s here,” he muttered. 

Nicolas had never been quite so happy for his Knight-Corporal ’s arrival. He ignore the veiled glares from Cartier as they fell into line and began the slow march back to the keep.

By the time they finished their patrol, their breath clouded the frosty air. Cartier was very obviously shivering as they marched back up to the Tower of Bone forward camp. The few templars still waiting to be transitioned onto red lyrium were the same. 

Laval called a halt as they climbed the path leading up to the tower overlooking the mine. An uncharacteristic bustle of activity filled the normally orderly camp at the foot of the tower. Knight-Captain Fornier and the keep ’s full complement of Knights-Lieutenant were deep in conversation with a lone traveller.

The visitor clearly wasn ’t from the Order. His casual stance and soft face implied a man who had never so much as looked at a sword in his life. Yet he seemed disconcertingly cheery and confident in the face of so many armed templars. Knight-Captain Fornier had made no effort to conceal his enjoyment of their Tevinter allies’ discomfort at being anywhere near a mine full of a substance that would be deadly to them. But he seemed almost deferential as he spoke to their latest visitor.

The crunch of boots on gravel heralded the arrival of another squad of templars from the direction of the keep. They drew to a crisp halt just short of Knight-Captain Fornier and his welcoming party of Knights-Lieutenant. Clearly their visitor was to receive an honour guard. A proper one this time, rather than the veiled threat implied by lining up every spare templar in the keep in full parade formation.

“An unarmed man travelling alone?” commented one of his squadmates. “I don’t see a staff, but he must be an apostate. I’m not sure whether that’s better or worse than the Tevinter mages.”

Nicolas breathed out a soft laugh. If every apostate advertised themselves by carrying a staff dripping with crystals and arcane symbols, their jobs would be far easier. Unfortunately, not all mages carried staffs and not all people carrying staffs were mages. Some staffs even looked just like polearms. Some of them  _ were _ polearms.

“Look how close he’s standing to the shipment,” he replied in a whisper. “He’d look far less comfortable being that close to that much lyrium if he were a mage.”

Laval cast an irritated look over his shoulder to silence the whispers.  “That would be our new red lyrium expert,” he informed them all reluctantly. “Lord Imshael of Maker knows where. Clearly he’s no templar, but we are to defer to him regardless.”

It didn ’t take an observant person to recognise how much their Knight-Corporal resented that fact.

A flurry of snow swept through the air in front of them. It settled on the ground without any suggestion of melting. Nicolas and Cartier exchanged a look. Not an apostate. But how exactly could one explain snow in early summer, even this far south?


	9. Changes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me just pretend that Suledin Keep was slightly more organised than it looked in-game.

Nicolas blinked slowly up at the canvas roof of his tent. One hand cradled the humming shard of lyrium on the chain about his neck. A gift given to each one of them by Lord Imshael to stabilise red lyrium ’s influence over them. There was no doubt that it had helped in that respect. Despite the fact that every templar in the Emprise du Lion had been rapidly transitioned onto red lyrium following Imshael’s arrival, there had been almost no outbreaks of madness. If he truly was a red lyrium expert, he might well deserve the title.

Imshael has praised their good progress. Good, but it could be far better. For all the success they had had so far, they could do so much better. They  _ had _ to do better if the Order was to survive. If they were to sustain every faithful templar in Thedas with a single source of lyrium,  ‘good’ wasn’t enough.

Sacrifices had to be made. The workers would not be allowed to leave. Production had to increase. Knight-Captain Fornier had said it was no longer safe for the workers to be released back to Sahrnia. No one below Knight-Corporal was even permitted to speak to them any more. Those of the workers who hadn ’t entirely lost their minds had sickened to the point that they were barely able to stand. Some of them had disappeared entirely. Dead most likely. It seemed that even proximity to red lyrium was dangerous to the untrained. 

Who was to say what the workers might do if they returned to their families? It was a necessary cruelty. Simply one of many difficult choices a templar was required to make in service to the Maker, Knight-Captain Fornier had said, with Lord Imshael a smiling presence at his side. Who was he  — a lowly Knight-Templar — to argue?

Nicolas gently ran his thumb along the sharp edge of the crystal ’s facet. There was a pleasant resonance where he touched it. A familiar hum of pain as a quiet reminder of the latent strength beneath his skin.

He wasn ’t entirely sure whether or not he had slept. He wasn’t entirely sure he needed much sleep any more. He wasn’t sure he  _ wanted _ to sleep. When he closed his eyes, he could see red lyrium ’s gleam beneath his eyelids. When he did fall asleep, it crooned in his dreams and twisted them into confused and bloody things that faded with the dawn. 

He sighed irritably and slid off his bedroll. It was well before he was due to wake, but clearly trying to sleep any more was a futile exercise. He slipped through the tent flap and paused for a moment. In the faint grey pre-dawn light, the ground outside was a pristine sheet of glittering silver. Ghislain had been too far north for snow, or even frost. For all that he knew there was something very wrong with frost in early summer, it was a beautiful sight. 

A murky reflection looked back at him as he cracked the skin of the icy bucket of water outside his tent. That was a sight he would rather not have to see. Complexion that was becoming increasingly ashen until the only colour left was in flushed cheeks. Veins that had become more prominent as his skin continued to pale. Bloodshot eyes. Not glowing, thank the Maker. Or at least, not yet. 

Madness may have only struck a few, but the physical signs happened to them all. The speed of the change seemed to vary from templar to templar, but the signs always appeared eventually. Knight-Lieutenant Erasmus had been the first to show any evidence of lyrium use, but he was hardly the last.

“Hey, Nicolas,” said a hushed voice from behind him as he splashed icy water over his face.

He whirled about, one hand going for the sword that would usually have been at his hip. It met nothing but thin cloth.

“Maker above, Sybelle,” he hissed back. “A little more warning would be nice.”

She folded her arms over her breastplate and raised an eyebrow.  “You’re a templar. Pay attention.” 

“I assume you didn’t creep up on me before dawn to tell me that?” he retorted quietly.

“Hardly. I just got off assignment at the tower, and …” she dug a booted toe through the dirty pile of half-melted snow. “It was pointed out to me that I’ve been a coward this past month.”

“I’d hardly call you that. You’d face an abomination alone.”

“I think you have me confused for someone else. I can see a madman like you doing that, maybe.”

Nicolas shuddered.  “Maker. Not unless I had to.” 

Sybelle snorted out a weak laugh. Her eyes glittered as she shook her head. For just a moment, they seemed brighter than they should have given the pre-dawn light. Maker. He could only pray he was seeing things. Sybelle had been taking red lyrium for less time than he had. Her eyes had always been that rusty shade, hadn ’t they?

“So?” he prompted when Sybelle appeared not to want to speak any further.

“I may have been a little… unfair in not listening to you,” she began slowly.

“I hardly noticed,” he replied dryly.

“Don’t make this difficult for me, Nicolas,” she snapped. She whispered a brief curse under her breath and glared at him. “Maker above. This stuff can be hard to control at times.”

Nicolas cleared his throat. There hadn ’t been anything quite as severe since the incident in the quarry, but he would be lying if he said he hadn’t had more arguments than strictly necessary since starting the new rations. 

“It can be a little, ah…”

“Unpredictable?” she supplied.

“As accurate as any description, I suppose.” He gestured for her to continue. “Please. I’ll try not to interrupt this time.”

“You apologised for how you acted. You were right when you said that red lyrium was different. But you can’t blame me for not understanding that,” she added pre-emptively. “I insinuated some unfair things. Again, in the circumstances, not entirely unjustified. But unfair.”

“Apologies have always been your strength,” Nicolas noted wryly.

Sybelle rolled her eyes.  “We were taught how to kill demons, not how to be a diplomatic. But we’ve been friends since we were children and we never let our arguments get in the way of that. Forgive me for refusing to accept your apology. Please accept mine.”

“There’s no question about it. I won’t deny that there’s an urge to argue, but we’re better than that.”

She breathed a soft sigh of relief,  “Maker knows that was far more difficult that it should be. Back to something like normal, then?”

“As normal as it can be.”

Sybelle nodded, but there was still a tightness about her eyes that had Nicolas worried.  “You’ve been taking the new rations for a few weeks now. You’re not still in pain are you?” he asked.

Her expression became suddenly unreadable.  “I’ve been told the pain is normal,” she replied flatly.

Nicolas shook his head. That was true, of course. Pain was a familiar companion by now, but it didn ’t really matter. It simply was. “You’re not going to fool me with that, Sybelle. It’s normal, but-” He stopped, hunting for a suitable description. “The pain shouldn’t mean anything to you. It… it drives you. Strengthens you. Are you in  _ noticeable  _ pain? ”

She hesitated for a long time before answering him.  “All the time,” she whispered. “I’m not sleeping much.”

“Maker, Sybelle. Wait there.” 

He slipped back into his tent and hunted through his small sack of belongings, ignoring the muffled groaning protests of his tent mates. There wasn ’t much to sort though. He quickly found the crumpled pouch that Etien had given him weeks ago and ducked back out to where Sybelle paced with an all too familiar restlessness. Now that he was looking, there was a little hesitant caution in her movements, unlike the easy grace of the rest of them. 

He handed the pouch over to her. It was still more than half full. In the end, he had barely needed to use it before he adapted.  “Take this. I don’t need it any more.”

Dry leaves crackled as she squeezed the pouch.  “Thank you,” she replied with a weak smile for him. “I used everything my Knight-Corporal gave me and didn’t dare ask for more.”

“I should apologise for not trying harder to speak to you after you transferred to the new rations. Maker knows it’s not an simple transition.”

She gave an awkward shrug.  “I hardly made it easy, it’s not your—”

“You don’t need to make excuses for me,” he interrupted, perhaps a little more impatiently than was deserved. The whisper at the back of his mind that encouraged aggression was hardly a justification for letting this argument fester.

They both fell silent as one of Nicolas ’ tent mates pushed his way through the tent flap, blinking in the faint light. He began to stretch, then stopped as he noticed them and tugged his sleeves straight.

“What?” he snapped irritably.

“It’s a conversation, Beck, not a surprise inspection,” Nicolas replied mildly. He turned back to Sybelle. “I suppose there’s not much point trying to sleep any more. Have you eaten yet?”

“No. I haven’t taken my daily ration yet either.”

“After we’ve eaten.” He slipped back into his tent to collect his arms and armour. He certainly hoped she could wait. He could feel the thirst building at the back of his throat, but it was easily ignored. For now. He was sure this need hadn’t been so obvious on Chantry lyrium, even after their rations had been reduced.

Sybelle led the way down the row of tents as he tightened the final straps on his armour.  “I owe an apology to a certain someone else too.”

“Who?”

“The only person who would dare call me a coward and the only one with any chance of forcing me to apologise to you.”

Nicolas glanced cautiously over at Sybelle.  “Etien.”

“We had a bit of an argument,” she replied with a nod and a wince. “He noticed that we weren’t talking, of course.”

“He wasn’t the only one that noticed, but there was a lot of that going around until we all transitioned.”

“True. Maker knows it can be annoying to live around people trained to spot little details like say, a sudden change in behaviour,” she sighed. “He pointed out that I would have had to do the same in your situation and that we shouldn’t fracture any more than we already have.”

Nicolas eyed the Sword of Mercy emblazoned on the tents to either side of them.  “I would agree,” he responded glumly. 

That symbol had signified a unified Order once. Now half of their brothers and sisters were in scattered fragments across Thedas. Others who had joined the Inquisition. Even worse, some had broken their vows and left the Order entirely. They had been told that the Inquisition ’s military commander was one of them. From a name everyone recognised and a Knight-Commander of a Circle to someone so close to the status of an apostate that it didn’t bear thinking. The world had gone mad. They needed what unity they could find. 

Sybelle chuckled suddenly.  “He also told me that neither of you have needed me to watch out for you since you were old enough to pick up a training sword.”

Nicolas blinked at Sybelle, startled.  “That doesn’t sound very much like him.”

“I’m paraphrasing. It was Etien, so he was very polite about it.”

Nicolas breathed out a soft laugh. That seemed more accurate.

What they used as the mess was more of a courtyard than a hall, tumbled blocks of stone taking the place of benches and tables. It was too early yet for a proper meal to have been prepared by those assigned to mess duty for the day, but there was a pot of something warm and filling over the dull embers of the fire. There were a few other early wakers scattered about, lost in their own worlds. Even Knight-Lieutenant Connall was slouched in a corner, blinking resentfully at the mug in front of him.

By mutual agreement, Sybelle and Nicolas chose a space as far from him as was reasonably possible. Nicolas leaned back with a sigh and clasped his hands about his bowl, more out of habit than anything else. A light dusting of frost glittered across the entire space, but he didn ’t notice the cold any more than the warmth leaching out of the bowl into the frigid air.

Sybelle scattered some elfroot across the contents of her bowl before doing the same.  “I’ve missed this … normality, I suppose. Etien even said he would be here soon, if he could find the time.”

“That would be good. Maker knows I want to pretend that the past few months — or years for that matter — hadn’t happened.”

“If only.” She glanced around before lowering her voice. “But take care, Nicolas. I worry about you. And Etien.” 

Nicolas tapped the hilt of his sword.  “Not only am I old enough to pick up a training sword, but I can even wield a real one without slicing off my own fingers,” he informed her dryly. “In fact, I’ve been told I’m rather good with it.”

She snorted out a laugh, but it didn ’t seem to have much heart behind it. “Right, sorry. But there’s more proof that I am actually a coward.” 

“How so?”

“You and Etien. I was never properly spoke to either of you, after...”

“After the inevitable,” he finished curtly, humour fading to the first glimmers of anger. He set the bowl to one side. What little appetite he had had was gone. 

It was a conversation he had been eternally grateful to avoid until now. Etien certainly seemed to have moved on, for which Nicolas was glad. And why shouldn’t he have done? It had been eight years, after all. Granted, for a moment, Nicolas had suspected that there had been some relationship between Erasmus and Etien. Or when Cartier had made his insinuations. There had been a brief spark of jealousy, and always the anger that followed now. But that had been unfair. Etien was as dedicated as Nicolas, if not more. He would never have considered that kind of fraternisation. And even if he did, he had a life of his own. Still, the jealousy had been an unpleasant reminder that vows would never be easy to uphold.

“I know that even if you had been sent to the same posting, you would have faced expulsion. It could never last forever. But it broke my heart to see how much it hurt you both.”

He winced.  “I handled it poorly. I regret that.”

“Poorly?” She shook her head disbelievingly. “You told him you planned to swear a vow of celibacy. I can’t see many scenarios where that conversation goes well.”

“No…” Nicolas replied, ducking his head briefly. He felt cold, suddenly. “Regardless, it was eight years ago. I would like to think it’s in the past for both of us.”

“Maybe.” She took a long sip from her bowl. Tension leached from her limbs as the elfroot took effect. “He told me to stop worrying about him, but—”

Nicolas exhaled and closed his eyes. Control.  “Sybelle. Drop the subject. Leave the past where it belongs. We’ve managed.”

“I know,” she replied with a shrug. “I respect that. I should apologise for any unfair insinuations.”

“You don’t need to apologise again.” He scrubbed wearily at his face, stubble rasping beneath the palms of his leather gloves. “Please. We’re meant to be pretending that everything is normal.”

“Normal it is, then.” She smirked at him. “I suppose I should start by regaling you with tales of my constant battle to avoid breaking my neck during night-time patrols.”

He waved a hand for her to continue and lifted his bowl again.  “Please do. I have three hours until I’m on duty.”

This time Nicolas caught the tap of boots on stone from behind him. He and Sybelle glanced over their shoulders to catch Etien ’s approach. Etien’s gaze flickered from Sybelle to Nicolas and then quickly back to Sybelle again as he approached.

“Well now we really can pretend things are normal,” Sybelle whispered to him. “He actually is going to talk to us.” She waved at Etien. “I’m pleased you could make the time.”

Etien nodded a cautious greeting.  “I would have hated to miss out on such an interesting story,” he said.

Nicolas realised with a jolt that there was the first hint of a buzz in Etien ’s voice that they were growing to recognise as another aspect of red lyrium’s influence. He tried to pretend it didn’t matter to him. All these symptoms were minor. The incidents of madness had stopped. There was no reason to fear any of them might lose their minds at any moment.

Either Sybelle didn ’t notice the lyrium buzz, or she was better at hiding his reactions than usual. She gestured for him to join them, mercifully giving no hint of their earlier topic of conversation. “You will be happy to know that your stern telling-off was effective, Knight-Corporal. Neither of us has tried to kill the other.” 

Nicolas shrugged a shoulder.  “At least, not yet.”

Etien settled himself opposite them with a subdued sigh. It was hard to tell whether his drawn features were due to bone deep fatigue or simply the pallor of red lyrium, but he still made an attempt at a relaxed smile. It didn ’t look as natural as it should have. The pale shade of his irises had been smothered by a hazy red glow that Nicolas dreaded to see every time he looked at his own reflection. 

“I’m glad three years as an officer counts for something good. So. Please tell us about your final honed skills at patrolling. Or perhaps the thrilling sights of the tower forward camp? I note you’ve been assigned there recently.”

Sybelle gave Etien a mock salute and rolled her eyes at Nicolas.  “I suppose the mundane duties of a Knight-Templar are far too boring for a Knight-Corporal like Etien.”

Etien ’s smile became a touch more strained. It was painful to see how profoundly exhausted he had become over the past months. Maker, but Nicolas wished Sybelle had never brought up the topic of the past. It had been easy to ignore when no one actually spoke about it. Eight years strictly adhering to his vow ought to have been enough to help, surely?

“There’s nothing to envy in my position. I wouldn’t wish it on either of you. With Knight-Lieutenant Erasmus temporarily withdrawn from duty…” Etien rubbed at his temple and glanced briefly over at Nicolas with those unnaturally gleaming and deeply weary eyes, forestalling any more probing questions that he had wanted to ask. “Mundane is exactly what I need.”

“Then I will gladly oblige.”

Nicolas leaned back and listened, glad for an excuse to forget about it all for just a moment. No war that had completely shattered the routine of their lives. No quarry full of lyrium and captive workers. No painful past. No humming song that sometimes threatened to drown his thoughts. If his and Etien ’s subdued chuckles were perhaps a little harsher and more grating than they should have been, he could ignore it.

But of course, reality could only be avoided for so long. The sky had barely begaun to lighten when a templar that Nicolas knew only by sight rushed into the mess, calling for Etien.

Etien shot up with enviably quick reactions, one hand resettling his sword for ease of access.  “What?”

“Knight-Corporal! Knight-Captain Fornier has sent for you immediately, Ser. Barracks.”

“Surely you’re off duty,” Nicolas protested.

“I’m never off duty,” Etien replied shortly before turning and striding after the messenger. 

By unspoken agreement, Nicolas and Sybelle followed at a distance. Maker knew what could be so urgent at this hour, and the barracks was hardly going to be off limits to the two of them.

They kept pace behind Etien, dodging around familiar piles of rubble and through the derelict keep. They rounded a corner and had to scramble to a halt to keep from walking into another Knight-Corporal blocking the way towards the tents that made up their barracks.

He jerked his head at Etien to indicate behind him.  “That way.” Sybelle and Nicolas saluted on instinct as he turned a crimson-eyed glare on them. “Get out of here,” he snapped.

Nicolas backed up, pulling Sybelle away with him.  “Right away, Ser.”

“You’re not really leaving are you?” Sybelle hissed at him.

“Of course not,” Nicolas whispered back. He flicked his eyes over towards scatter of watchers observing from a prudent distance. Makeshift barracks or not, it worked the same way. There were always going to be people around, and the speed of gossip and rumour justified its own field of study in a Circle. He spotted Harper near the back and slipped in next to her.

“What happened?” Nicolas asked her. Lack of armour and a tangled clump of hair said she’d been forced out of her bedroll whilst half asleep.

“Couldn’t really say. At this point I wouldn’t even be surprised if it was Andraste herself falling out the sky into someone’s bedroll,” she murmured in a low drawl. “I woke up to this commotion.”

“Lyrium madness?”

She shook her head in a curt negative.  “We haven’t had any of that in a while.” She inclined her head to further along the row of tents where another group stood arrayed in front of a particularly forbidding-looking Knight-Captain Fornier. “Before the Knight-Captain got here, his tent mates said there was lyrium in him.”

Sybelle leaned around Nicolas and raised an eyebrow.  “And that’s a surprise? There’s lyrium in all of us.”

She shrugged.  “Didn’t make any sense to me either, but then I’ve only had an hour or two of sleep.”

They fell silent as there was a sudden yelp. Nicolas had never felt comfortable getting to know the men in Etien ’s squad, but he knew enough to recognise the man who stumbled backwards out of the tent. He was breathing in erratic gasps, one arm cradled protectively against his chest, the hand tucked against his side. “This can’t be happening,” he was sobbing. “It’s a dream.” 

Etien stepped out of the tent too. Close behind, the outwardly non-threatening Lord Imshael, hands clasped loosely behind his back. He ’d been here almost a month, but no one was quite sure quite what country he called his own. He certainly wasn’t Orlesian. His accent could have placed him anywhere in Ferelden or one of the Free Marcher cities, or even Tevinter. His features and mode of dress hardly narrowed the options down any further. Shorter than Etien, and a full head shorter than Knight-Captain Fornier. Hardly a match for an armed and armoured templar. But some deep instinct told every one of them that there was more to fear in Imshael’s soft smile than the sharp edge of a drawn blade. This was a man who had ventured unarmed and alone to join them in Emprise du Lion. A man who could command a Knight-Captain without a trace of doubt or uncertainty. He wasn’t the soft noble he seemed.

Imshael prowled past Etien and shook his head regretfully.  “Come now, Ser Caliban. I’ve heard such tales of the bravery of the White Spire’s noble guardians.” 

Knight-Captain Fornier stalked away from the templars he had been questioning.  “Now, Knight-Templar,” he growled.

The man hauled in a breath, shoulders shaking uncontrollably.  “Maker have mercy,” he whispered, and raised his arm away from his side.

There was a collective intake of breath and flinch backwards from the curious watchers. Nicolas whispered a fragment of prayer.

The man ’s sleeve had ridden up to above his elbow as he lifted it. In the dim light of pre-dawn, crimson crystal gleamed with hideous brightness. Short spines — each barely the length of his thumb — jutted directly out of skin, their rich colour a stark contrast to skin with the ashen cast that suggested months of red lyrium use. The smooth growths projected out in a cluster from above his wrist and trailed all the way up to his elbow in a jagged and irregular line.

They had seen how well red lyrium was flourishing in the quarry now that Imshael had arrived, of course. Nicolas could accept that an inanimate crystal could be cultivated, somehow. But  _ this _ ? It was growing in him. A living, breathing man corrupted by rampant growth of a substance they were all taking. He could hear its ceaseless hum and feel its fire beneath his skin now.

Harper was muttering what sounded like the entirety of the Canticle of Benedictions as she inspected the smooth skin of her palms. She wasn ’t the only one. Sybelle was gripping his arm with what would have been painful tightness. It could have bruised even through thick padding of his jerkin and arming jacket.

“Maker and his holy bride,” she whispered to him. She looked physically ill. “That’s impossible.”

Knight-Captain Fornier snapped a look over at the observers and cursed. He, Imshael, and Etien looked more uneasy than shocked. Etien caught Nicolas and Sybelle ’s nauseated gazes through the crowd. He shook his head minutely. He did a reasonable job of hiding it, but it was clear he regretted them being there.

Imshael turned to Knight-Captain Fornier.  “He won’t be the only one, just the poor fool who couldn’t face hiding it. Check them all. Send any others to me.”

Etien stiffened and took a step to place himself half in front of his subordinate.  “By your leave, Knight-Captain, but Caliban is sane and healthy, aside from this. He needs help, not—”

“This isn’t a conversation to have in public,” Fornier growled, cutting Etien off. He glanced across at Imshael. “But Knight-Corporal Cime is right.”

“You mistake me, my dear Knight-Captain. There’s nothing to hide here. Look at it. The lyrium has become a part of him. Consuming weak flesh and replacing it with something better.” He draped an arm around the shuddering templar’s shoulders, somehow supporting a man who had to be twice his weight even without armour. A slow smile crawled across his face. “Image what could be done if I could control it. Not too fast, not too slow. The perfect balance of growth.”

Fornier folded his arms and frowned.  “If  _ we  _ could control it. ”

“Precisely. The opportunities are endless. It’s positively delightful. Simply give me what I ask and I can offer you all the strength of arms you and the Elder One need to fight these heretics of yours.”

Fornier looked contemplative, but Caliban reacted almost immediately. Imshael slid away as he was shoved back. Caliban retreated until his back hit his tent, once again cradling his corrupted arm to his side.

“What are you talking about?!” he demanded. He snapped a desperate look at Etien, shoulders shaking uncontrollably. “I’m not—. Knight-Corporal, please, you can’t—”

“He will do as ordered. As will you, Knight-Templar,” Knight-Captain Fornier interjected, leaving Etien with a response half-formed. “You delivered far more than I was expecting on your previous promises, lordling. You will have whatever resources you need, but I expect results.”

“Excellent.” Imshael inspected Caliban with an unpleasantly possessive stare then gave Etien a dismissive glance. “I’m not entirely unsympathetic. You can deliver Ser Caliban to my care by noon.”

“Knight-Captain, with all due respect, we don’t know what Lord Imshael intends to do,” Etien observed, ignoring Imshael as he gestured to Caliban. “He needs the surgeon, Ser.”

“Loyalty to your subordinates is an admirable quality in any officer, but dispute this again and I will have you disciplined for insubordination, Knight-Corporal. I acknowledge your objection, but as far as you’re concerned, Lord Imshael speaks with my voice.”

“Maker above,” Sybelle whispered from beside Nicolas. “He’s going to argue with the Knight-Captain.”

Nicolas shook his head.  “Not Etien.” It would be so easy to give in to that insistent demand for action and aggression. But he couldn’t see it from Etien.

Etien looked to be drawn tight as a bowstring as he gave Knight-Captain Fornier a rigidly precise salute, face utterly unreadable.  “Yes, Knight-Captain.”

“I wouldn’t worry so much, Ser Cime. I imagine your Ser Caliban will serve far better than you could imagine once we’ve explored all that strength on offer. Just imagine.”

Nicolas nodded in sympathy with the flat red glare that Etien gave Imshael.  ”As you say, Ser,” he replied curtly, before leading a sobbing Caliban away to the huddle of his squadmates. Etien’s shoulders slumped as he began to address his men. Maker knew what you could even say in a situation like that. Nicolas didn’t envy him his position at all.

Knight-Captain Fornier cast a glare at the scattered observers.  “None of you leaves until you have been assessed by your direct superiors.”

He stalked off, already calling for Knight-Lieutenant Connall. Imshael glided away behind him, a serene smile on his smooth features.

“Merciful Maker,” Nicolas murmured. “It feels wrong to say this, but thank the Maker that’s not us.”

Harper nodded and lifted a hand to grasp the lyrium shard they all wore.  “True, but you can’t argue with Lord Imshael’s results. I’ll admit that history had told me to fully expecting to lose my mind.”

Sybelle folded her arms. “Look at Caliban. What if that happens to us? Maker above. It was growing on him. What happens if it was Imshael’s fault? What else has he actually done other than give us some jewellery? ”

“The quarry?” Nicolas suggested. “It’s growing so well now that red lyrium has even been seen at Drakon’s Rise.”

“Yes, the quarry,” Sybelle replied dubiously. “How exactly did he make it grow better? For all that he says he’s a gardener — which I doubt given the fact that he’s a lord — I can’t imagine that watering lyrium would do much good.”

“We’re templars, not gardeners,” Nicolas noted. “Maybe it _does_ work like that.”

“If it’s that simply, why don’t they tell us how? Instead we’re restricted from speaking to anyone in the quarry.”

Harper glanced back over at them.  “You wouldn’t get much of use out of them anyway. The lyrium plays with their minds. And if you ask me, it’s the same old story as when we were under the Chantry. I don’t know about you, but if I could grow an unlimited supply of lyrium from a handful of crystals, I might not be as willing to stick around. The Lord Seeker isn’t going to want us wandering off any more than the Chantry did.”

It was a cynical view, but not one with which Nicolas could argue. There were always templars who served only because they didn ’t have any choice otherwise. Lyrium bound them to the Order as permanently as their vows. It was a tool, but it was a means of control too, albeit one they found only after they became initiated as templars. Little wonder the Order’s resentment for the Chantry had festered.

Sybelle nodded a grudging agreement.  “Maybe. But I don’t trust any of this. Merciful Maker. What if it all this was Imshael’s fault?” she repeated.

Nicolas gestured for Sybelle to lower her voice.  “I can understand a little distrust, but be careful that isn’t the lyrium talking. I’d rather not see you disappear too.”

Sybelle snorted out a pained laugh.  “I’m not paranoid, I just want to understand what’s happening.” 

“We don’t have to understand anything. We just have to trust that Knight-Captain Fornier knows what he’s doing, as unpleasant as it might be. It’s no different to the Circle.”

“In the Circle we understood what was happening, even if we couldn’t see the wider context. What if you’re the next one handed over to Imshael for mysterious purposes? You think Laval is going to try even half as hard as Etien just did for Caliban?”

Nicolas didn ’t have a response other than the old platitudes. Faith and duty. Without those, service as a templar would be impossible. If only they didn’t have to rely on it quite as much these days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don’t ask how, but this fic has ended up a lot more character focused than I had originally intended. My main templars are entirely original characters, but there are a few names I’ve put in that do actually feature in various codex entries from Emprise du Lion/Suledin Keep. Every now and then, they crop up.


	10. What Must be Done

Suledin Keep didn ’t strictly have a chapel of its own. It didn’t even have a token eternal flame to stand in as an appropriate substitute. Those who felt the need to exercise their faith outside of the perfunctory services conducted by the Knight-Captain — or more often now, his subordinates — did so in private.

Even that was less common than it had been on their arrival. Faith had become a rare commodity. Or worse, people had begun to believe what they were told by General Samson ’s representatives. The Maker would never and had never given them anything. Force of arms was the only meaningful power left in Thedas. It was an intoxicating thought for too many, made all the more powerful for that fact that it was hard to disprove. The Order  _ were  _ trained for years in the art of combat, after all. They wore armour, not the robes of the priesthood, and they carried swords.

Still, for the few of them who  _ did _ feel the need to pray, there was a location that had been informally designated as a chapel of sorts. A spare brazier to represent the eternal flame. A carven lump of wood to stand in for a statue of Andraste, crudely but painstakingly made in someone ’s off-duty hours and decorated with a worn dagger to represent a sword. Someone, perhaps with noble relations, had even donated a small triptych. 

Nicolas had found himself there far more often in the past few days. It made for one of the few sources of comfort without unfairly relying on Sybelle or Etien. They had their own concerns, probably had their own nightmares too. Certainly Nicolas wasn ’tt he worst off in that respect. Had he been on normal lyrium, the nightmares wouldn’t have emerged. As it was, he woke well before dawn with pounding heart and shaking breaths. But dry as a bone. Not a drop of sweat, for all the horror of his dreams. Another one of red lyrium’s small changes.

They would begin in a deceptively normal fashion. He might be in the barracks mess hall, or patrolling the Circle. He would see his reflection. Perhaps in a polished piece of metal or in a bowl of water. 

Solid red eyes glared back at him, light spilling out to warp his features into something barely recognisable. More horrifying, because he knew he was looking at himself. He would reach out to touch the reflection, heart racing with restrained dread. The hand that he raised would be grotesquely deformed thing of solid lyrium, smooth shards and plates sliding over each other like the segments of a guantlet to allow the full movement of fingers elongated into razor sharp crimson claws.

Then, as if seeing the corruption was enough to trigger a change, it would start spreading, racing up his arm, along his shoulder, over his cheat. No more smooth plates. The rapid growth was constricting him, driving the air from his lungs and replacing it with red lyrium ’s liquid fire. His racing heart would begin to labour, desperately struggling to continue beating. Then, finally, with agony shrieking in his mind, it stalled as it too crystallised. 

And all he could hear was lyrium singing, roaring, screaming in his mind. 

When he was driven from his sleep, he still heard it. Not quite as loud, of course, but always humming, with the gentle buzz of the shard around his neck as a counterpoint.

Worst of all, the first thing that came to his lips when he woke was a simple plea.  _ Maker. Not me. Please. Anyone but me _ . It was a coward ’s thought. Would he rather see it happen to Laval? To Cartier or Harper or anyone else in his squad? To Sybelle?

To Etien?

Perhaps it was the product of unease, or Sybelle ’s over-active imagination, but it wasn’t too much of a stretch to imagine that it could happen. The growths they had seen on Caliban might only be the start. There was no reason for it to stop there. Maker knew what had happened to Caliban. Beck from his own squad had been taken too. No one had seen them in days but everyone knew and feared what had been revealed. Red lyrium was consuming them all, Caliban and Beck and others like them were just the worst off. He couldn’t wish it on anyone. Horror and shame were an almost crippling combination.

Exercising his faith was hardly a cure, but it was all he could do. He needed to forget it all. There was something happening, out of sight of the rank-and-file. Something concerning enough to have multiple previously obedient officers argue with a Knight-Captain in the open, where their subordinates could see and hear. Even in the final weeks before the Circles had fallen, the strain hadn ’t been so clearly on display. Blaming the mental changes wrought by red lyrium could only go so far. It couldn’t just be the physical corruption that had them worried. 

Maker knew what normality was, but he prayed for it. Or at least, he tried. For all that they had seen, even the vaguest thought of forsaking red lyrium was met with nauseating terror. Normality, and the courage to face what red lyrium had in store for them without faltering. The Maker hadn ’t abandoned them, whatever increasingly loud voices might be saying.

Nicolas was glad to arrive at the makeshift chapel. It was late enough that a quick glance suggested it was emoty too, thankfully.

For all that it was a hastily made thing, those who cared had made sure the chapel had everything the faithful might need. Someone had even left candles in niche just outside. The stubby ends of cheap tallow candles too short to be of use to anyone, but candles nonetheless. It was good enough for their purposes. Vows of poverty had never really sat well with the ostentatious ceremony preferred by the Chantry.

Nicolas selected a particularly sorry-looking stump of candle and ducked through the curtain of arbor blessing that granted some degree of privacy for the tiny courtyard. 

He wouldn ’t even have noticed the familiar man sitting the wall if it hadn’t been for the slow blink of a pair of softly-glowing eyes. It was hardly the first time he had arrived to find the makeshift chapel already occupied. He had bumped into Knight-Lieutenant Coutte here more times than was comfortable. She seemed to be here in nearly ever spare moment.

Sitting as he was, it seemed unlikely that Etien was praying. He didn ’t seem to be doing much else than staring fixedly at the scabbarded blade on the floor in front of him. Nicolas began to back out of the space even so. Whatever he had stumbled on here was clearly private.

Etien seemed to shake himself out of a daze. He stood hurriedly and began to buckle his sword back on.  “Nicolas. Please don’t let me stop you.” He cleared his throat, shaking off a little of the uncomfortable lyrium buzz colouring his speech. “I was just leaving.”

Nicolas tried on a wry smile that immediately fell flat.  “Of course you weren’t.”

“You’re right.”

Nicolas hurried to find something to feel the awkward silence that had fallen. To ask Etien what he had been doing would be taking liberties he didn ’t have a right to any more. He settled on the question that had been burning in every rank-and-file templar in Suledin Keep.

“How is Caliban?”

Etien ’s hands stilled for a moment before continuing to tighten his sword belt. “Alive. That’s the best I can say.”

Nicolas drew back at the flat response.  “I shouldn’t pry.”

“You have a right to know.” Etien snapped with an uncharacteristic burst of anger. “Everyone does. I’m tired of all the blighted secrets here.”

Forget not prying, whether or not it was the right response, he couldn ’t leave this alone. “Maker, Etien. What is it?”

“I’m sorry,” Etien murmured, drawing back into himself. “Forget I said that. I’m just … tired.”

It was still hard to judge what was simply a product of his red lyrium use, but he certainly looked tired.

“When did you last sleep?”

Etien blinked once.  “Five days ago. It’s not an issue. You’ll find yourself able to do the same soon enough.”

“Maker above. Five days? I know you said you were covering Knight-Lieutenant Erasmus’ duties, but that’s unreasonable. I can’t exactly order you to do anything, but you should sleep.”

“No. I shouldn’t.” He shook his head and began to move for the exit. “I’ll leave you to your prayers.”

Nicolas shifted to block his path, steeling himself against Etien ’s brief flash of irritation. “Clearly this is none of my business, but if you don’t talk to someone, you’re going to end up doing worse than arguing with a Knight-Captain.”

“Maker. I wish you hadn’t heard any of that.”

Nicolas snorted out a disbelieving laugh.  “What was it you just said? ‘We have a right to know’, yes?”

“Please, Nicolas. I can’t have this argument right now.”

“Fine. Maker forgive us for the secrets we must keep,” Nicolas sighed wearily. When he blinked, he could still see little scraps of his recurring nightmare. No doubt that hadn’t helped with this sudden need to push Etien into answering him. He moved to free the exit. “Good night, Etien.”

Etien had begun to move past as soon as Nicolas withdrew his arm, but he paused halfway out and gave a shaky laugh.  “By Andraste and all that is holy, I wish you were right. What I wouldn’t give to have your faith.”

“You have twice the faith I do.”

“Maybe that was true before we left the monastery.” Etien braced himself against the doorway, strands of vine brushing against his bowed head. “The Maker isn’t going to forgive us, Nicolas. We’ve even lost the right to the merciful blade.”

“What in the Maker’s name do you mean by that?” When Etien didn’t answer, Nicolas took the risk of clasping Etien’s shhoulder. For all their unnatural light, the eyes that met his were despairing. “We used to talk, even before…” he tailed off and started again. “Let me return the favour. Tell me what’s wrong, Etien.”

“Maker. I want to. I need—” he closed his eyes for a long moment, clearly wavering. “I won’t tell you anything of worth, but I need to talk before I lose my mind.”

Nicolas bit his tongue. That common phrase held too much darker significance these days.

He led the way to the same quiet alcoves where he and Sybelle had argued about the disappearances what felt like years ago. Etien settled himself facing out of a narrow window looking across the silvery landscape, all the smooth snowy edges further softened by moonlight. Nicolas sat against a wall near him. Close enough to hear. Sensibly distant. If Etien recognized the fine balance, he gave no sign.

“I’ve been standing in for Knight-Lieutenant Erasmus,” Etien began quietly. “Under normal circumstances it would have been a reassuring gesture of confidence. Now—” he shrugged. “I hardly know.”

“I’ve noticed that he’s nowhere to be seen recently,” Nicolas commented. 

There were parts of the keep restricted to officers only. Imshael remained there most of the time too. It would be easy for Erasmus to conceal himself, but Maker knew why he would. He was as good as Knight-Captain Fornier ’s right hand. Small hope that Etien would give any more than the vaguest detail.

Gleaming eyes blinked at Nicolas.  “He’s a different man to who he was in the White Spire,” Etien acknowledged vaguely. “He has discovered a new passion assisting Lord Imshael.”

“You mean with Caliban and the others Imshael took?”

“More than just that. Maker forgive us.”

“You’re an officer, Etien. Surely you have some say.”

“I’m only a lowly Knight-Corporal. I might be standing standing in for my Knight-Lieutenant, but that gives me all the responsibility without any of the authority. I have to follow orders from above, whether I like them or not.”

“The only questionable thing I’ve truly seen us do here is keep the quarry workers confined. Knight-Captain Fornier at least has some kind of justification for that.”

“Maker. I wish that was the worst of it,” Etien exhaled.

“But you can’t tell me.”

“Can’t and won’t, the same as before.” He slumped slightly. Nicolas gave him the pause to just think. “Have you ever been through withdrawal? Or seen someone endure it?” Etien asked finally. The question seemed irrelevant, but it probably wasn’t. They were templars after all, an the influence lyrium had over them was an ever-present warning against straying too far.

“No, thank the Maker.” Nicolas hesitated and thought back to his time in Ghislain. “But I knew someone who was found smuggling goods into the Circle.”

“Standard penalty: one week without lyrium rations,” Etien quoted flatly. “Smuggling was a common problem in the White Spire.”

Nicolas cast a startled look at Etien. The reaction hinted at something more personal than a simple awareness of the penalty.  “Not you?”

“I never smuggled goods, but soon after my promotion I was subjected to that pleasure by a particularly severe Revered Mother. To ‘appropriately understand the significance of the penalty’, should I be required to issue it.” He stared off into the distance. “I’ve seen the penalty applied a few times,” he continued quietly. “On red lyrium, withdrawal is … worse.”

Nicolas shivered. If the mere thought of forsaking red lyrium was painful, the act had to be infinitely worse. He found his own voice dropping.  “Worse?” he prompted reluctantly.

“They beg, Nicolas. They scream. They cry. And if they are cursed with enough presence of mind, they plead for mercy. It is — apparently — absolute and unbearable agony.” He had curled a hand about the hilt of his sword as he spoke. It was hard to tell whether he wanted to draw it or rip it off and throw it into the darkness. “I’ve heard that there are people who have permanently forsaken Chantry lyrium and survived. I doubt we’d be as lucky.”

For all that Nicolas didn ’t feel the outside temperature any more, he certainly felt cold. They felt pain all the time on red lyrium, but he could remember the pain after taking his first draught. It must only have been a few seconds, but it had felt like an eternity. “Surely no one here has done anything to justify that kind of penalty.”

Etien dipped his head.  “You would be right. Sacrifices continue to be made in the name of our distant overseers.” He exhaled stared out over the silvery landscape, shoulder slumping further. “I wish I could say that was the worst of it. I don’t have clean hands, Nicolas.”

Nicolas pushed himself up and slipped into the space beside Etien. Sensible or not, he was hardly going to leave him like this.  “I don’t care whether this is the lyrium, or fatigue, but you’re a good man, Etien.”

There was still a prudent amount of space between them, but Etien ’s face lit briefly with a flicker of gratitude so sincere that it made Nicolas’ heart ache. “I wish you were right, but thank you.”

“I know you can’t tell me anything, but it’s obvious there’s far too much happening behind our backs here. So let me guess.” Nicolas sighed and studied the view. They were at the right side of the keep to see the quarry. It glowed at night, vibrant crimson softened by the distance. Etien was looking anywhere but down there. A true show of willpower given the way it drew Nicolas own attention. “The workers. There’s a reason they’re being kept in the quarry. Beyond whatever the Knight-Captain said about security.” He glanced over at Etien and caught a minute nod. “The templars who lost their minds. All those disappearances. No one has seen or heard anything about them since. You know what happened to them. It’s not good.” Another nod, so small it was barely visible.

“Maker. I didn’t want to be right.”

“I wish you weren’t right either,” he sighed. “I wish I could still justify why we were here.”

“What changed?”

“Everything. There’s a part of me that wishes I could admit it all, but if I did, you’d condemn me as worse than a demon. Perhaps I’m selfish for hoping you can pretend I am who I once was.”

“I saw you fight for Caliban. A corrupt man doesn’t do that.”

“I obeyed the order, Nicolas.”

“Obedience is a necessary part of our calling. I hardly need to tell that to a Knight-Corporal.”

“Perhaps, but that’s rather meaningless for Caliban. He was a good templar.”

“Was? You said he was alive.”

“He is, but he’s not who he was any more.”

“Maker, Etien. We shouldn’t have to keep secrets like this.” With a start, Nicolas realised he had been unconsciously toying with the shard of lyrium about his neck. He dropped it and braced his hands against the stone sill. “A final theory, then. You weren’t surprised by what happened to Caliban. You knew it would happen.”

At that, Etien shook his head.  “We were certainly surprised, but for different reason. Red lyrium has a …” Nicolas saw Etien flinch in the faint light, “…taste … for living bodies. Imshael demonstrated how we can make use of that. But it seems that even we aren’t immune.”

“And will it happen to all of us?” Nicolas asked quietly. He had to resist the temptation to strip his gauntlet to check for any sign of corruption. His skin had been unbroken when he had dressed only half an hour ago.

“I can only guess.”

“And that guess would be…?”

“That it’s only a matter of time. Some seem to be one of the lucky ones who can hold the changes at bay.” Scarlet eyes glanced over at Nicolas. “Thank the Maker,” he whispered. Perhaps Nicolas hadn’t been meant to hear. “Caliban was unfortunate. Maker grant him strength, if not mercy. I should have tried harder.”

“You did what you could.”

“I appreciate the effort, Nicolas. But it’s months too late for absolution.” 

“Do you regret being assigned here, then?”

“Maker. That’s an impossible question. I suppose I’d have been in Therinfal Redoubt by now otherwise. I’d still be taking red lyrium, of course. It probably would have been much the same, to be quite honest. But…” He gestured vaguely in Nicolas’ direction, although his gaze remained fixed out towards the distant peaks. “I wouldn’t have this. It’s been nice to see you and Sybelle again.”

Nicolas chose to avoid acknowledging the brief pause before Etien had hurried to add Sybelle ’s name. There was nothing to say that hadn’t been said eight years ago. 

They sat in silence, gazing out over the gloomy landscape. There was something not right here. And there was absolutely nothing either of them could do. He hated feeling quite so powerless.

When Nicolas glanced briefly over at Etien, he had leaned against the stone. His eyes were closed and his breathing had slowed to the even rate of someone fast asleep. Even without those gleaming eyes looking back at him, he didn ’t look healthy. In the dark, it was easier to tell that the feverish blush of colour in his skin was all thanks to red lyrium’s subdued gleam. How long before he went the same way as Caliban? How long before they all did? Perhaps the pain was a warning rather than a source of strength.

Perhaps it was wrong, but Nicolas found himself relaxing too. But dawn reveille came far too soon. Etien woke with a start, glancing around himself with something like panic that actually seemed to get worse when he spotted Nicolas.

“Maker. Nicolas? I didn’t— What am I doing here?”

“Resting. You clearly needed it.” Nicolas eased himself up. “I should go before muster is called.”

“Right. Of course. I’m sorry for burdening you,” Etien said as they began to walk back towards the makeshift barracks. “I shouldn’t—”

“Stop, Etien,” Nicolas interjected, waving away Etien’s apology. “I could hardly call myself a friend if I didn’t help you when you needed it.”

Nicolas didn ’t entirely see the look of gratitude this time, but he caught see the long look Etien gave him from the corner of his eye. “Thank you,” he replied plainly.

Activity was just beginning to build around the barracks tents as they arrived. People were easing themselves out of their tents, blinking wearily in the dull light. No one was sleeping particularly well any more. His return to the tents had been just in time. Laval marched down the row, kicking up clumps of dirty snow. He drew to a halt in front of Etien and glowered.

“Ser Cime. Have you come to take another of my men, then?”

“It’s not my decision,” he gestured towards the tents assigned to Nicolas and the others of his squad. “I’ll remind you that only one of your men was found with changes. I lost four.”

Laval snorted and folded his arms.  “The White Spire always needs to be the best.” He stabbed a finger in Nicolas’ direction. “You. Muster by the gatehouse,” Laval informed him before sparing a sneer for Etien. “Knight-Captain Fornier has remembered that we from Ghislain are just as good as any other templars. We’re escorting him down to Sahrnia to speak with Mistress Poulin. Your Knight-Lieutenant Erasmus isn’t even going to be there this time.”

“I know. Maker guide you.” He never looked in Nicolas’ direction, but that last was said more in Nicolas’ direction than Laval’s.

There was nothing that Nicolas could say. Not with Laval watching disapprovingly.  “Thank you, Ser,” Nicolas said to his retreating back.

Against the backdrop of snow, Mistress Poulin ’s small estate looked a little as it must once have done. Bright walls in pastel shades were a striking contrast against the crisp blanket of pure white. 

There was hardly anything to watch for out here, but Nicolas scanned the space leading to her small estate regardless. The softened edges of the snow-covered landscape. A stand of trees, fresh spring leaves withering and dying on the branches before they ’d even had a chance to grow.

Mistress Poulin ’s elderly manservant looked faintly horrified to see them when he opened to door. “Mistress Poulin is indisposed,” he told Knight-Captain Fornier weakly. 

He was blinking quickly, as if he couldn ’t understand what he was seeing. It would take a blind man to fail to recognise that there was something very wrong with the templars arrayed on the path leading to Mistress Poulin’s door.

“I’m quite willing to wait,” Knight-Captain Fornier replied with a smile that wasn’t as amicable as it should have been. His arm was resting lightly against the door, blocking it from closing on them. The manservant wouldn’t realise it, of course, but Fornier’s false calm and careful insistence were precisely the procedure to handle visiting the home of a suspected apostate. Perhaps it was simply engrained habit, but it was hardly a promising association.

“Let him in, Ferrand. I wish to speak with the Knight-Captain.”

The manservant straightened slightly from his stoop and inched to one side. Mistress Poulin clearly didn ’t intend to welcome Knight-Captain Fornier into her study this time. She swept into view, swaddled in layers of fur and thick clothing.

“Explain yourself, Knight-Captain,” she demanded, before coming to an abrupt halt. She raised a hand to her mouth in an almost comical gesture of surprise. “Andraste’s grace. Your eyes.” She glanced from Fornier to Knights-Lieutenant Coutte and Connal beside him. “All of you. What…?”

“Nothing to concern you, Mistress Poulin.” He gestured into the interior, as if he were the one welcoming her into his home. “We have much to discuss. You have an opportunity to be of further assistance to us.”

“Further assistance?” she exclaimed. “I am required to do no such thing. You have much to answer for before I would even consider being of further assistance.” 

Fornier pointedly looked over his shoulder at the snow-strewn landscape outside.  “Surely you aren’t implying that we are somehow to blame for this weather.”

She laughed incredulously.  “Don’t be ridiculous. You understand my meaning perfectly well. I must insist that you allow the quarry workers to return to their homes.”

“I’m afraid that is no longer an option. But please, Mistress Poulin. We should speak in private.”

She hesitated and visibly composed herself, demonstrating precisely why Orlesian nobles chose to wear masks.  “Let us speak then. You will explain to me precisely what you mean.”

Fornier paused in the doorway as Mistress Poulin swept away.  “Coutte. Two of your squads to cover the estate grounds,” he ordered quietly. “One inside. Sahrnia is to be considered hostile territory. You and Connall are with me.”

Coutte gave a sharp nod and snapped out a few orders before settling into place at Knight-Captain ’s Fornier’s left hand. They followed after Mistress Poulin, each of their smooth strides matching two of hers. 

For all that Laval had gloated about Ghislain ’s selection for this assignment, it was rather obvious why Erasmus and the White Spire weren’t here. Connall and Coutte looked almost untouched compared to Erasmus. Pale and cursed with gleaming eyes, but nothing like Erasmus’s corpse-like features. He hadn’t even been seen in public since soon after Imshael’s arrival. Maker knew how he looked now.

Under Laval ’s stern attention, Nicolas and his squadmates filtered silently into the hallway. One old man and a noble lady. Hostile territory.

They waited in watchful silence, hands clasped around the hilts of weapons as they scanned for a threat. They might not understand what made this hostile territory, but vigilance was so deeply engrained that it was second nature. Paranoia too, more than ever these days. Perhaps there was news from outside.

None of them noticed the cold, of course, but the manservant hovered in a corner, shivering slightly. He was failing miserably at ignoring the templars standing at readiness. Unless he had survived this long as an apostate by some miracle, there wasn ’t much he could do to pose a threat to them. As it was, a fledgling recruit could have knocked him over.

The shutters had been closed against the unseasonal cold. The dim lighting did few favours for the tired furniture and faded walls of the hall. Their breath clouded in the air. There was a grand fireplace at the end of the hall, but it looked as if it hadn ’t been lit in months. In a region that had already been struggling to survive, this impossible weather had to have hit them hard. And judging by the lack of heat, whatever coin Mistress Poulin had been paid for her quarry hadn’t be used to keep her home warm.

Nicolas ’ ears perked up at the sound of a raised voice from the direction of the study. He couldn’t hear what was being said, but it had to be Mistress Poulin. Whatever Knight-Captain Fornier had to say must not have been to her liking.

Laval ’s head shifted in the same direction. His eyes glittered from the slit of his helm as he snorted out a low laugh that was too loud in the perfect silence of the hall. Clearly he too had discarded the thought that there might be any danger.

There was the loud bang of a door being thrown open.  “Get out,” Mistress Poulin shouted.

“Ser Agrican. Ser Harper. See the Knight-Captain doesn’t need any help,” Laval ordered.

Nicolas jogged away on Harper ’s heels in the direction of the study. Coutte and Connall had left Mistress Poulin’s study, but Knight-Captain Fornier stood in the doorway, his back towards them. His hands were held loosely by his side and he seemed perfectly at ease. Coutte, on the other hand, looked conflicted. She shook her head in a curt dismissal as Harper and Nicolas approached.

“Would you rather I forget this attempt at courtesy?” Nicolas heard Fornier say as they marched back to the entrance hall. “I can have them all taken, but that’s a path of last resort that neither of us wants to follow.”

It was only a few minutes more before Fornier strode back into the hallway, Connall and Coutte at his heels. His look of smug satisfaction could have been a match for Imshael ’s expressions. He swept towards the door before the shivering manservant could hobble over to open it. The man’s faltering steps were a glaring contrast against Fornier’s gleeful and graceful energy.

“Maker, Knight-Captain,” Coutte muttered as she strode past. “That was not a pleasant experience.”

“We’re almost sustainable,” Connall retorted heatedly. “We can’t stop now because you’re feeling squeamish.”

“To falter now would be an insult to those who have fallen.” Fornier looked past Coutte to where Nicolas and the others in the hall had begun to file after them, watching and listening discreetly. “Any price. You would all do well to remember that in the coming weeks,” he announced loudly. He handed a folded sheet of paper over to her. “Tonight. Be discreet. Leave more supplies for Mistress Poulin. We must show our gratitude.” 

She unfolded the sheet and skimmed the content, frowning deeply. She saluted crisply enough, for all that she looked uncomfortable with whatever she had read.  “I’ll see it done, Ser.”

“Excellent. Now that Mistress Poulin understands her position here, you will conduct any further negotiations on my behalf, should it be necessary.”

“I pray it isn’t, Ser.”

“As do I,” he responded with a nod. “But we do what we must.”

“They do what Lord Imshael tells them to do,” one of Nicolas’ squad-mates muttered quietly.

Nicolas wished the snide rejoinder wasn ’t as accurate as it seemed to have become. Lord Imshael spoke, and the templars of Suledin Keep followed. Sometimes without even a protest. If it was Imshael’s bidding that they followed, it seemed unlikely that much good could come of whatever had brought Knight-Captain Fornier down to Sahrnia when he had to know that he would find no friends down here.


	11. Red Templars

Knight-Captain Fornier’s address had been as impassioned as ever. The Order served the highest calling. Hard choices had to be made in order to ensure its survival. The templars of Suledin Keep were to be praised for the critical part they played in that endeavour.

In truth, Nicolas couldn’t really remember what had been said. But he _believed._ With the melody crooning in his mind, reinforced by the sheer volume of red lyrium around them, he hadn’t the presence of mind to even consider otherwise.

They had all been provided with an additional vial of lyrium before heading back into Sahrnia that evening. It was hostile territory now, after all. Nevermind that there probably wasn’t a single sword in the entire village.

A knock on a door. A curious face peering out into the pitch black of night time in the Highlands. Shock as they were restrained and bound.

Knight-Lieutenant Coutte was the only one who hadn’t been given an additional vial. She intoned the Canticle of Benedictions as they made their way between residences. The sombre words fell in the gaps left in the unpredictable tempo of the lyrium song. An unwelcome dirge. For the rest of them, the lyrium song was all they needed to drive them onwards. They marched to its beat.

By the time Imshael stepped up in Knight-Captain Fornier’s place and ordered one of the villagers restrained, Nicolas’ mind was nothing but instinct. He obeyed without hesitation. When Imshael approached with a flask of glowing red, he didn’t blink. All he could hear was the song. When the man screamed, Nicolas didn’t even flinch.

Pain was strength. Sacrifice was necessary. They were the Maker’s faithful servants. Resolute in service. His will was written in blood.

-

It was dawn. Nicolas frowned at the hazy grey sky as he sorted through the fragments of memory from the past few hours. They seemed more like dreams than actual memories. Granted, he had a few too many nightmares for comfort these days, but unless he had mastered the art of sleeping whilst standing up, he was sure he hadn’t actually slept last night.

Yesterday morning he and others in Knight-Lieutenant Coutte’s command had escorted Knight-Captain Fornier to Mistress Poulin’s estate. Then he had tried and failed to find Sybelle. Knight-Lieutenant Coutte had needed to return to Sahrnia that evening on Knight-Captain Fornier’s orders. Knight-Corporal Laval’s squad had been selected. Then… Then what?

He could recall being in Sahrnia village. Or had it been a late night patrol in the quarry? That would have made more sense considering that patrols kept their distance from the village. But he was part convinced he _had_ actually been in Sahrnia village.

He raised a hand to rest over his breastplate, above his heart. It was fluttering in something close to dread. Maker. Was he losing his mind? Gaps in memory were one of the most obvious signs that a templar was losing their battle with lyrium.

He shook himself and tried to pretend he wasn’t afraid. There was an argument going on further down the row of tents. He wouldn’t usually have paid much attention, but an argument between Sybelle and Cartier was a different matter. He was pitifully glad for the distraction.

He jogged up in time to see Cartier shake his head in exasperation. Sybelle was a knot of steel of tension opposite him. A few curious eyes had glanced their way before returning to their own business. Arguments were inevitable in a barracks environment and had only become more frequent since their transition to red lyrium.

“If you’ve got nothing worth saying, keep your mouth shut, Cartier,” she hissed.

“This may be a surprise to hear,” Cartier retorted, striding forwards until he was inches away from Sybelle. “But you’re not an officer. I see no reason to follow your orders.”

Her fist snapped out and caught Cartier solidly on the jaw. He reeled backwards, too surprised to counter. “How about now?” she barked.

“Sybelle!” Nicolas snapped. “Stop!”

He caught her arm halfway to punching Cartier again. It was getting worse, and not just for her. Their superiors were clamping down as hard as they could, but there were more fights. More injuries. It hadn’t been like this before.

“Now is not the time,” he hissed, checking quickly over his shoulder to check there were no officers bearing down on them.

“Andraste’s flaming sword,” Cartier cursed quietly, gently prodding at his jaw. The metal of Sybelle’s gauntlets had split skin. Now the cut oozed a sluggish trickle of blood that was a touch too red to be entirely natural. “Neither of you can take a joke these days.”

He glared at Cartier, wishing for once that he had the full benefit of red lyrium’s gleam to reinforce the look. He could hazard a guess that whatever Cartier had said to start this argument had been unwelcome. “Maybe it’s a sign that your jokes could do with improvement.”

“I should report her for assault.”

“Do it then, Cartier,” Sybelle snapped.

“But you won’t,” Nicolas said hurriedly. “I’m sure none of us wants to be cited for fighting in the barracks.”

Cartier glowered at them both, still massaging his jaw. It was hard to judge whether he wanted to punch Sybelle or find the closest officer.

Nicolas indicated down the row of tents. “Go away. I’ll speak to Sybelle.”

“These are our tents, not hers,” he retorted.

Sybelle leaned forwards. She was pushing against his grip, seemingly without realising it. “Are you a noble now, Cartier? Do what you want and say what you want?”

“You started the blighted conversation, Sybelle. And you _hit_ me _._ ”

“Not the time, Cartier,” Nicolas interjected, letting a note of warning slip into his tone.

Cariter threw his arms up in exasperation. “Fine.”

“Wait,” Nicolas called out as Cartier began to walk away, before lowering his voice. “What duty were we assigned to last night?”

Cartier went rigid and eyed Nicolas with something that he might have called alarm. His hand dropped limply from his jaw. “I— Ah. Escort for the Knight-Lieutenant.” The response rose at the end, more question than statement.

“Right. Of course.”

Cartier looked relieved as he strode hurriedly away in a direction that would take him to the mess hall, back in a rigidly straight line. Did Cartier not remember either, or was it just Nicolas? Maker. It had been a mistake to ask. Cartier could report him for memory problems.

“Special assignment again?” Sybelle asked mockingly.

“No. I just can’t…” Nicolas shook himself and turned away from watching Cartier’s rapid retreat. Sybelle certainly didn’t need to know right now. “Was that really necessary?”

She tugged her arm out of his grip. “Cartier is a self-absorbed little nobody.”

“Maker, Sybelle. I know you don’t like Cartier, but just ignore him like you always do. Fighting can’t end well for anyone.”

She shrugged away from his hand on her shoulder as if she had been dodging a strike. “I see no reason to spend the rest of my life listening to his snide comments.”

“If you started the conversa—”

“Are you on his side now, Nicolas?” she interjected angrily. “Maker above. I came to talk to you, but forget this. I’m leaving.” She spun away in a whirl of bright cloth and stalked off.

“Sybelle!” Nicolas called out.

She ignored him, scattering a few others emerging from their tents.

Memory problems. Arguments. Etien was clearly guilt-ridden about something. Sybelle was angrier every day. Maker knew what was happening to them here.

They had all been gathered on Knight-Captain Fornier’s orders, but it was Imshael who stood in front of the massed ranks to address them. His voice was still oddly quiet, yet they could hear without straining. Something about changes and strength.

It was a testament to the compelling nature of Imshael’s silken tones that any of them were listening at all. There were a few templars gathered behind Imshael. Knight-Captain Fornier, of course. Knight-Lieutenant Connall, looking uncharacteristically formal. Etien too, and his fellow White Spire Knights-Corporal. And then there was Knight-Lieutenant Erasmus standing tall and proud by Imshael’s right hand. The first time he had been seen in Maker knew how long.

He surveyed them impassively with eyes the solid fiery red of a fire’s dying embers. Eyes like that were becoming commonplace, but that was hardly the worst of it. Tiny crystals followed the line of his brow, lengthening to spines that crowned his head in some sick parody of a crown. Longer spines clustered about his shoulders and were visible as malevolently gleaming spurs on his legs beneath his tabard. Smaller crystals sparked on the knuckles of the hand curled about the hilt of his sword.

It would almost have been elegant if it hadn’t been so horrific.

“Knight-Lieutenant Erasmus’ enthusiasm for the task has been a credit to the enlightened nature of your Order,” Imshael was saying. “So much has been achieved in the past weeks. And so Knight-Captain Fornier has agreed that these achievements should be shared with you all.” He raised a hand theatrically to indicate the rear of the courtyard. “We welcome the return of many of your brother and sister templars.”

There was a rustle as the ranks turned to look behind them. There were a few sharp gasps as people caught sight of the figure who had begun to march down the ranks towards the front.

She was a woman. Or woman-shaped, at least. It could have been anyone. She had changed almost beyond recognition.

Whoever or whatever he was, she stalked through the gap in the mustered ranks with effortless animal grace. A being of steel and crystal. Lyrium sheathed her arms from elbow to well beyond where her arms should have ended. Smaller crystal growths grew in patchy clusters on her shoulders and from one cheekbone, but it was those solid crystal blades replacing her arms that were most horrific. They were pure lyrium. That much was obvious from the now-familiar look and the way it called for Nicolas’ attention. There was barely any sign that she might once have had proper limbs. Hands. Fingers. She had been crippled by the growths, yet she didn’t seem to care.

She looked deadly. The eyes that had passed over the ranks hadn’t held much recognition for her brothers and sisters. Hostility like banked coals behind those fiery eyes, certainly. There had been a measure of calculation too, as if all she saw was a threat to be monitored. She had become an embodiment of what many saw in the Order. Vigilant living blades, always ready to strike.

She certainly didn’t look human.

There was no time to process the horror of what they were seeing. Another templar marched up behind her. Suspicious eyes glared out at them from above a mouth twisted into a grotesque grimace. He seemed almost the precise opposite of the sleek transformations undergone by Erasmus or the horror with blades for arms. There was less lyrium visible on him, aside from a few stubby growths on his arms. But he bulged oddly in places, looking almost but not quite like the bulk of muscle. His skin looked stretched taut, close to splitting entirely. The dull reddish tone made it obvious that there was lyrium right beneath, waiting to burst through. He had been transformed into a hulking brute of swollen muscle and lyrium rage.

Another few followed behind, each warped or twisted by lyrium into something barely human. The horrified whispering in the ranks quickly sputtered out to a nauseated silence as they watched and worried. Nicolas own quiet prayers had trailed off too. He stood stiff and rigid, hardly daring to blink.

Even having begun to see what happened to the unlucky few after extended red lyrium use, it was a shock to see how far it could warp them and yet keep them alive.

There was a sudden ripple of visceral horror through the ranks. Another templar entered the courtyard, heavy footsteps thudding on the stones. There was no pretence at maintaining discipline now. Templars recoiled backwards as the … _thing_ … lumbered past them.

“Caliban,” Imshael announced proudly to oblivious ranks, “has begun to stretch the boundaries of red lyrium’s stunning potential.”

At least the others had borne some resemblance to the human form, twisted as they might be. For Caliban, it was worse. Far _far_ worse.

Nicolas swallowed back bile, the memory of the searing metallic burn of his daily lyrium still fresh in his mind. A too-large part of him didn’t even want to call what he was seeing a human anymore. That would have acknowledged that they all had the potential to become horros like this. _He_ could become a horror like this. And yet there was undeniably something human in there.

Caliban was more lyrium than man. He was bulked out to incredible size by a sheer impossible mass of lyrium. Towering spikes leapt from his shoulders and back in an asymmetrical forest of bristling crystal. What little flesh was visible was a burned red. The little shard of lyrium on its chain about his neck was dwarfed by the crystal burdening him down. His left arm barely even looked like a proper limb any more. It was a mangled club of faceted crystal wreathed in the flickers of lightning that played around any large mass of red lyrium, and so unwieldy that it dragged him down on that side. It trailed behind him, drawing the occasional atonal ring from as it struck the ground. The other arm was a withered thing ending in a hand that was more like a gnarled claw. The ridges and lines of bone were visible beneath skin. It was as if every scrap of muscle and tissue had been consumed to feed the accelerated growth of lyrium. Its scorching heat could be felt from paces away.

There was a token effort at showing that he was still a templar. A breastplate strapped awkwardly to his chest. Entirely unnecessary given the hard crystal sheathing his chest. The scraps of robes about his waist and legs gave him some semblance of dignity. It just emphasised how much lyrium had changed him. He looked like the worst and most twisted abomination.

Nicolas flinched as the thing that had once been a templar glanced at him. There had been some concious mind still identifiable in the others. Nicolas couldn't recognise anything of the sort in Caliban. There was anger in its — no, _his_ — eyes, but there was unimaginable agony too. His every breath was a painful buzzing wheeze. To be so corrupted, yet still be alive? Nicolas couldn’t imagine it. It was appalling. If he _had_ been an abomination, he would have been granted mercy, not forced to endure this torture.

Mercy. Of course. Nicolas heart sank as he snapped his head to look at Etien. He stood behind the others, ashen grey as the stones of the keep. Rigidly straight, he looked perfectly detached and indifferent, but Nicolas could see through the act. Etien must have seen what was happening to the men under his command. Was this was why he had said that they had been denied the merciful blade?

Imshael smiled like a proud parent as Caliban lumbered to a halt beside him. “There’s so much _potential_ to be had here. Each of you has a role to play and choices to make.” He patted Caliban on his withered arm without any sign of disgust. “But you should all remember this: do not be ashamed of any changes that might yet come. This is your chance at greatness.”

-

This time Nicolas purposefully went hunting for Etien. Their resolution to pretend at normality had ground to a halt almost as soon as it started. He was nowhere to be found in the mess. He hadn’t even been in the makeshift chapel. That only left the secluded borders of the keep where they had last spoken and where Etien had allowed himself to relax, if only for a brief moment. If he couldn’t be found there, he could only be in the parts of the keep reserved for the officers. It would be the perfect place to hide if Etien didn’t want to talk. But if he wanted to talk…

Nicolas released a breath he hadn’t know he’d been holding as he spotted the familiar figure leaning in the arch of a broken window.

“Etien,” he murmured. “Are you alright?”

Etien glanced over at Nicolas with a bleakly amused smile. Maker but he looked terrible. “Am I alright? I’m quite well off compared to Caliban and every other one of those poor souls. By Andraste and all that is holy. I’ve been responsible for those men for years. I knew Imshael wouldn’t treat them kindly. I _saw_ it. Now I look at them and I…”

Nicolas had held back from interrupting. Clearly Etien had needed to vent. Now he jumped into the pause. “It’s terrible. But I pray there’s something left of who they were behind the lyrium.”

Even as Nicolas said it, he knew how false a hope it was. To be so closely tied to lyrium would surely come at the cost of one’s mind.

“We both know that’s not true. I saw the change. It’s … Maker,” he exhaled. “It’s not kind. To lose their minds is probably a kindness in their cases.”

“Now that they’ve seen what it can do to us, will they be more careful?”

Etien barked out a sharp laugh. “The opposite. They keep rations as they are, but you heard Lord Imshael. If you have the potential to end up like Caliban or one of the others, all the better as far as they’re concerned.”

“I saw him. Yes, he might be some sort of unbeatable warrior now, but we’re more than just mindless warriors.”

Etien shrugged helplessly. “I would have agreed, but it seems the Elder One wants us for nothing more than our martial skill. They’ve barely begun to experiment with what someone like him can do. Having a mind of your own could be considered a weakness.”

“So we’re all to become like Caliban then?” Nicolas demanded with a poorly-concealed shudder.

“I pray not,” Etien exhaled. “I don’t think it’s considered an option. I hope it isn’t.”

“Yet.”

Etien gave a short nod of agreement, barely visible. “Yet. Utterly obedient warriors with all the strength of red lyrium at their beck and call would make a powerful army if this Elder One intends to become a warlord.”

Nicolas swung around to lean against the wall and stared up towards the parts of the keep reserved for the officers. “That may be true, but the Elder One isn’t the one with a say on our fates. Knight-Captain Fornier answers to the Lord Seeker first and foremost. He can’t condone this?”

“They haven’t managed anything like what was done to Caliban, but the Lord Seeker most certainly knows _and_ approves.” Etien scrubbed at his face. “The Inquisition will have an unpleasant surprise if they choose to negotiate with the Order.”

Nicolas snapped a disbelieving look at Etien. “Merciful Maker,” he breathed. “We’re being treated like…”

“Like tools. The same as ever.”

“We’re not disposable, Etien,” Nicolas snapped angrily. “I would give my life to serve the Maker if needed, but that? It’s blindingly obvious that Imshael gets some sick pleasure out of what he’s done. They’re barely human any more.”

“You’re right, of course. But what do you want me to say?”

“Maker. I don’t know.”

Nicolas massaged his forehead. The song felt like it was drilling right through his skull. Sahrnia village. The quarry. Screams. _We are ensuring that the Order can fight threats to its very existence_ , Knight-Captain Fornier had proclaimed. _Faith is our sword and our shield. Your unflinching service will be rewarded. You cannot falter._

It seemed like something that Knight-Captain Fornier would have said, but it was hazy and dreamlike. There were still gaps in his memory that seemed to have been replaced by the throbbing _realness_ of the lyrium song. It felt more solid and tangible than the stone and snow around them.

“We must have faith,” Nicolas muttered tonelessly.

“Maker,” Etien whispered, shifting from fatigue to concern faster than seemed possible. “How much were you given?”

Nicolas shook his head free of the sudden fog. There was something wrong. They were being used.

No. Necessary sacrifices. They served the Maker. There was a reason for everything, but it wasn’t his to know. They had left the Chantry to ensure that their lives weren’t wasted for the Chantry’s own pleasure. What they did now was for the greater good. Faith had served him through the uncertainty of the past years. It would be enough to see him through this now.

“There’s good reason for our sacrifices,” he responded, mind skimming easily over the unpleasant implication of Etien’s question. “There has to be. I can’t falter now.”

“Listen to me, Nicolas.” It was a sign of both their preoccupation that neither registered when Etien grabbed Nicolas’ arm. “They’re using it to control the Knights-Templar. Red lyrium is far more effective at that than Chantry lyrium ever was. They think that enough will keep you distracted, and they’re not wrong.”

“I don’t _need_ to be controlled. I serve the Order faithfully.”

“I wish I could believe that faith was all yours.”

Nicolas shifted uneasily. “Does it matter?” He shook his head to forestall any response from Etien. “Don’t answer. Maker knows I’m scared beyond belief that I’m losing my mind. I’m scared that you or Sybelle or I could become one of those things. But these words are all mine: you said you thought the Maker wouldn’t forgive you for what you’ve done, but the Maker put us on this path for a reason. We can only do our best with what we’ve been given.”

“With what? A quarter of my men are red lyrium _things_ now, never mind what we’ve begun doing in the quarry, or—” he paled and stumbled to a halt. “Maker take this red lyrium,” he cursed quietly.

Nicolas’ eyes narrowed. “What _are_ we doing in the quarry? What I remember doesn’t make any sense.”

“I shouldn’t say any more.” Etien began to withdraw. “Just… pay attention to the gaps in your memory. They’re not dreams.”

_Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter._

_Knight-Lieutenant Coutte had reminded them all why they were in Emprise du Lion as they mustered before her, ready to assist in her unspecified task in Sahrnia. They stood alone against heresy. Without them, Thedas would be lost. Thedas_ needed _the Order. It could not be allowed to fall. The templars in Sahrnia ensured that their brothers and sisters in Ferelden or further afield could do their duty._

_Each one of them had been handed an additional vial of lyrium to reinforce what they had taken that morning. Standard procedure when expecting any sort of significant threat. Perhaps bandits had been sighted, or worse, apostates. They would be grievously mistaken if they thought Sahrnia was easy prey._

_Some might have been hesitant. After all, every additional vial took them closer to the edge, and red lyrium took them far faster and far harder. Who knew if they might be next to lose their minds or might wake one morning with a hard lump of crystal marring their flesh._

_But it would take a far stronger man to resist the compulsion contained in that small container. They drank. Liquid fire rolled down Nicolas_ _’ throat, coating his tongue in a thick layer with the taste of burnt metal and oil. It was like drinking acid, if acid could bring such rapture. Beautiful, irresistible pain shivered through his nerves. And the song took him._

_Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just._

_The templars standing with Nicolas were picked out in small details. The glint of moonlight on a pauldron. The brighter reflections on steel breastplates, outlining the solid black of an emblazoned Sword of Mercy in bloody crimson. Vacant eyes gleaming a sullen red, faint wisps of light spilling over to illuminate brow and cheekbone. The pure glow of the unrefined lyrium shard on a chain about each of their necks._

_Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow._

_A row of villagers crouched in the dry heat of the quarry. Nicolas_ _’ hand was clamped on the shoulder of one, preventing him from moving. Not that they even struggled any more, or that their struggles would have made any difference if they had continued. They had realised the futility of trying to break free. It had been like a child trying to force back the tides. To say they were resigned would have been inaccurate. They had been forcibly removed from their homes in the dead of night and marched up to the quarry. Every templar with more than a year or two of experience could handle that manner of task neatly and efficiently. No thought necessary or even required. These people couldn’t even call on any magic to resist._

 _Their confusion at the unresponsive blankness of their apparent captors had become anger, and then fear. Not that Nicolas was even capable of recognising the sentiment. Now they knelt and they waited for their fates. The templars restraining them waited too. Captivated by the song vibrating in the air around them. Nothing else mattered but that. Nicolas would do anything to keep hearing it sing. Even now, with a double dose burning in his veins, it wasn_ _’t enough._

 _In their blood the Maker_ _’s will is written._

 _Imshael smiled beatifically and raised a flask of familiar crimson liquid. Too much for a regulation daily dose. Closer to the quantity of the first unforgettable draught a new initiate took to introduce them to and bind them with lyrium_ _’s power. Too much for one unprepared, even had it been weaker Chantry lyrium. Too much by far._

 _The first villager was dragged forwards. Forced to his knees. He drank. He screamed and kept screaming until his voice broke. Fell writhing and twitching to the floor. Was lifted and carried away, thin wail fading into the distance. The next was brought forwards. Nicolas_ _’ hand held him in place as Imshael offered the flask._

Not a dream.

Red lyrium was growing so well now. So much so, that it seemed the fortuitously and unseasonably cold weather was the only thing keeping it from overtaking the entire region. There were growths reported almost as far away as Sahrnia village. But it came at a terrible price.

Red lyrium fed on life.

Nicolas collapsed limply to one knee. He squeezed his eyes shut, falling easily into a posture of prayer in the secluded darkness of the tiny chapel. To have this hidden from them had been a small mercy. He didn't want to know. He wished Etien hadn't said anything. He wished he hadn't asked. It was wrong. Utterly wrong.

Faith. There had to be a reason. _Had_ to be. To believe otherwise … No. It didn’t bear thinking. He _couldn’t_ believe otherwise. Peraps what he remembered was confused. Somehow. And if not...

Any price to serve the Maker and his bride. That was the burden of the Templar Order. Even if that price went against their calling? Even if the price was the lives of innocents?


	12. Uncontrolled Change

Nicolas’ bones vibrated as his blade clashed with Cartier’s. They hadn’t bothered with shields. A more defensive style might be more prudent, but there was a thrill to combat without that protection. It felt good to have some release to the pent-up energy burning in them every minute of the day.

They disengaged and circled again. Cartier had bared his teeth in an angry grimace, posture low and loose. Without the controlled release of aggression offered by their combat drills, it would have broken out in far less appropriate situations. It still did, but this gave them all some much needed focus. Much needed distraction too. He didn’t want to have to think. Not about what might be happening out in the rest of Thedas with the war and the Inquisition. Not about what was happening to them here in Emprise du Lion. And certainly not about the quarry.

He still had dreams, or nightmares, or whatever the nebulous things should be called. Only they might not all be dreams. Reality was less concrete than it should have been.

Cartier was still circling, gleaming eyes flickering as he checked for gaps in Nicolas’ defence. Nicolas could see the Tower of Bone clawing at the sky over Cartier’s shoulder. Tall and once-proud, it loomed like the malevolent demon of the story. It was corrupted now by vast tumorous growths of red lyrium that broke up its simple lines. If a building _could_ be an abomination, it might have looked a little like that. It seemed an uncomfortably fitting symbol for their presence here. Certainly more so than the bloody crimson Templar Order pennants that hung limply from the tower’s upper reaches.

His gaze moved from the tower’s threatening mass to Cartier and back again. Maker knew how it had happened, but red lyrium was everywhere they looked. It was uncontained and uncontrollable, and yet as far as anyone could tell, the quarry still ran. Expeditions were still sent down to Sahrnia.

As he side-stepped in line with Cartier’s movements, he shied instinctively away from wondering what had happened to the man who had recounted the tower’s tale. His fate was in the Maker’s hands.

His focus snapped back to Cartier as he rushed forwards, reading Nicolas’ momentary distraction as a gap. Nicolas stepped neatly to one side, pivoting as Cartier changed direction, his blade flickering out for the inevitable weak gaps in templar armour.

Their blades clashed harmlessly again, but the over-eager assault had left Cartier too close to Nicolas. A twist of his blade and shove of his shoulder was all that was needed. Cartier’s sword landed in a snow drift. Cartier himself sprawled on the floor with a rough growl of frustration.

For a moment his fiery eyes gleamed hatred as his eyes flicked from the naked steel at his throat to Nicolas standing over him. Then it faded out to chagrin and he accepted the hand up that Nicolas offered.

“I would appreciate if you would let me win more often,” Cartier muttered, words almost lost in the harsh buzz that had begun to colour his speech.

Nicolas shrugged. Skill with a blade had compensated for unexceptional performance in other aspects of his training. Sharper reflexes combined with increases in strength and speed had only improved those capabilities. There was a growing contingent who no longer even saw the point to these drills. Why bother with maintaining their skill when they could simple use raw strength to overpower an opponent? In other cases, the changes that had been wrought on them meant that conventional combat might no longer be possible. Hands warped and deformed by red lyrium could hardly be expected to hold a sword and shield or bow.

“You don’t pay attention to your footing,” he replied. His answering smirk was strained. Without distraction, the confusion and doubts he held at bay through sheer force of will threatened to spill over into his concious mind again.

Cartier snorted out a laugh that seemed only partially resentful. He didn’t seem to show anything close to the doubts and fears that had plagued Nicolas over the past weeks. Maybe it was easier for him to forget the fate in store for them, and maybe he still believed the dreams were just that. It was equally likely that he just didn’t care so long as they got their lyrium. Confiding in Cartier was not an option, whichever option was more fitting.

“I don’t need to dance,” he retorted. “I just need to fight.”

“That’s not an excuse for being lazy.” Nicolas tapped Cartier’s leg with the flat of his sword. “Strength won’t do you much good if you keep tripping over your own feet.”

“Maker above. You’re infuriating when you win.” Cartier tilted his chin to point over Nicolas’ shoulder and folded his arms, grudging amusement fading to belligerence. The sound of combat drills for the Ghislain contingent rang out from all around them with varying degrees of enthusiasm, but one pair seemed to be particularly noisy. “You’d better keep Sybelle far away from me. A favour isn’t going to be enough to stop me from reporting her if she tries anything again.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, but somehow I doubt she was the only guilty party, Cartier,” Nicolas replied pointedly.

He turned away to watch Sybelle face off against her opponent. He was holding his own. Barely. Vicious was the only fitting description for the bout. The way Sybelle was wielding her weapon, a full sized greatsword would have been more suitable. He winced as her sword sliced through the air with an audible whistle. Or maybe a battleaxe. The way she was fighting, she looked as though she would have preferred the immediacy of hand-to-hand drills.

For all that they were ostensibly taught by the same tutors, everyone had a distinctive form that developed over the years. Sybelle’s style had once been deliberate to Etien’s flair or his own leaning towards precision. The dramatic change in her approach to combat was jarring, to say the least. Whilst the increasingly aggressive and incautious style had effected them all to some extent, Sybelle had clearly been worse hit than others.

A sudden low buzz shook the stones beneath their feet and vibrated in Nicolas’ bones. Cartier staggered slightly and the ongoing combat drills ground to an abrupt halt. Nicolas would have made another comment about Cartier’s footing, but the call had stolen away all his focus. Even Sybelle’s sword drooped sword as all their gazes involuntarily snapped towards the source of that familiar hum.

It was hardly the first time it had happened since their drills had started. In the neighbouring training ground set out on the open stretches of ground at the foot of the keep, Knight-Lieutenant Erasmus was demonstrating how red lyrium could be wielded. The conventional abilities granted to a templar, of course. Denials and suppression of magic, or the raw projected energy of a smite, all far more potent than they had been on Chantry lyrium. But with so much time dedicated to experimentation, they had found that there were far more capabilities once the physical changes began to show. Then even more once the first red lyrium growths emerged.

It was hard to mistake the sensation of someone wielding those more advanced abilities. Much the way a templar developed a sensitivity to magic, they developed a sensitivity to lyrium’s power being exerted. But this was different to what they had felt intermittently throughout the drills. Deeper and more insistent. It was persisting far longer than the other occurrences too. He could feel the lyrium in his blood surge in response, desperate to do something. Maker knew what Knight-Lieutenant Erasmus was trying now.

Knight-Lieutenant Coutte had been overseeing the drills along with the various Knights-Corporal under her command. She was the first to recover herself with an uneasy shiver. She seemed to hesitate before sweeping off towards the source of the angry buzz. Knight-Corporal Laval and the other Knights-Corporal shifted uneasily, confused enough that they didn’t even bother to order the drills to resume.

Before she had made it half way to the adjacent training ground, the buzz shot up to a fever pitch that boiled in Nicolas’ blood. In symphony with it, an agonised shriek echoed from the looming keep walls. Heart pounding, Nicolas broke into a run. Some had the same instinct, whilst others seemed rooted to the spot. He half expected to be called back by Laval or one of the other Knights-Corporal, until he saw them sprint past him.

They broke into the secondary training ground just in time to see an impossible sight. Cartier spat out a disbelieving curse worthy of the backstreets of Ghislain. From somewhere off to one side, Nicolas heard a horrified whisper from Harper. “Maker and his holy bride. Not again.”

Knight-Lieutenant Erasmus had fallen to one knee, a ring of changed templars frozen into immobility around him, lost to the exultant scream of the lyrium song. It was in Erasmus’ voice, playing behind his unbroken shriek.

There was lyrium everywhere. Not just in the bodies of the templars around Erasmus. Jagged crystals had erupted from the packed dirt at Erasmus’ feet, rooting him to the ground. One cruel spike seemed to have pierced right up through side. Or perhaps it had sprung from Erasmus. It was hard to tell where he ended and the lyrium began.

They stumbled to a halt and watched in disbelief. Between one blink and the next, the uncontrolled eruption of lyrium had raced over metal and cloth, merging with the smaller growths that plagued Erasmu’s body with the larger crystals that rooted him to the ground.

Erasmus began to reach out a pleading hand for help as it overwhelmed his chest and advanced on his arms. A gauntlet bulged and spilt with a tortured crack. The hand froze part way to reaching out. Nicolas blinked in disbelieving horror, backing away a step, then another. Impossible.

Another blink and the growth clawed at Erasmus neck. Then it streaked over his chin, following the prominent veins spidering over his face and blossoming outwards. The shriek choked off with gruesome abruptness. Brilliant red eyes brimming with agony and horror were the last to be lost.

The crystalline eyes seemed to drill right into Nicolas. Erasmus had been alive and sickeningly aware right until every scrap of flesh had been consumed by the insatiable growth.

The angry buzz cut off with an abrupt snap. Silence fell, aside from the ticking of rapidly cooling stone and the more subdued hum of raw lyrium.

A statue of solid crystal stood in the spot where Erasmus had been, contorted in a permanent monument to agony. One hand clutched at his heart, the other had been frozen part way to reaching out desperately for help that had never come. Whether he had been pleading for mercy from the Maker or the horrified templars who had watched on as lyrium overwhelmed him, it had been a futile gesture.

The agonised shrieks still echoed in Nicolas’ ears, for all that they had been choked off far too quickly. He couldn’t even begin to understand what had happened. Everything he had tried so desperately to wall away in the past weeks came flooding back in an unpleasant rush.

There was always a price to be paid.

And yet, even now, the raw lyrium that had overtaken Erasmus called out to Nicolas. A part of him was horrified and wanted to retreat as far as he could. The other part — the part he desperately didn’t want to acknowledge — felt drawn by the unrelenting call and the subtler resonance from its twin on the chain about his neck. It begged for him to come closer. Played on his mind. Shifted his thoughts so subtly he hardly knew which were his own. Maker. He always craved more. He couldn’t stop wanting it, even if it consumed him. He was trapped. They were mad. Corrupted and polluted by red lyrium’s influence. His every thought led inexorably back to it.

He choked off a desperate laugh before it broke free and clenched his fists. There was a reason for it all. They weren’t mad. The corruption of their minds and bodies was necessary. Even the ultimate price paid by Erasmus was necessary. They served the greater good. Whatever in the Maker’s name the greater good even was here.

The was a rustle of movement as the deathly-silent crowd parted to allow Imshael access to the smouldering form. Maker. Of course he was here. Every horror seemed to have Imshael at its heart.

Imshael’s boots splashed in a dirty slick of melted snow as he approached, one finger tapping his lips thoughtfully. He hardly seemed to care that the tortured figure had once been a man. If anything, he seemed fascinated and utterly fearless. His nose nearly touched the solid planes of Erasmus’ face as he inspected the frozen features.

Imshael tutted suddenly in disappointment and shook his head with patently false sadness. He straightened and turned to face the shocked audience. How he could be so calm, or recover so quickly was beyond Nicolas. His own thoughts were still scattered beyond recovery.

“I can’t fault Erasmus for his enthusiasm, but this is a terrible waste,” he said sternly. “Prudence is far better.” He clasped his hands behind his back and circled the figure. “If you take too much too quickly, well…” he stopped circling and hovered a hand above the crystalline statue’s shoulder. “Erasmus’ example speaks for itself.”

The possessive smirk that Imshael gave them all as he stepped away from Erasmus’ remains sent a sudden shiver up Nicolas’ spine. It was suddenly a little easier to understand why they had begun to call him a demon. It wasn’t a word to throw around lightly as a templar, but he could understand.

“I suppose your dear Knight-Captain hasn’t bothered to tell you,” he continued, “but the Elder One’s attempt to crush the Inquisition in Haven failed. Miserably. In fact, their position is now stronger than it was before. Your master is no doubt licking his wounds as we speak.”

There was a whisper of surprise from the listeners. A few instinctively checked for Knight-Captain Fornier, expecting him to appear and silence Imshael. They had been told — in the vaguest possible terms — that a move had been made on Haven a month ago in the wake of the Inquisition stealing a significant number of the Elder One’s allies from under his nose. But then, nothing further. They certainly hadn’t been told it had ended in disaster. At this point, disaster seemed to be all they could expect.

“So if you truly want to crush these heretics of yours, you will have to pay closer attention to my advice. I can give you strength, if you submit.” He studied the crystalline form, smooth features marred by a sudden frown. “I would so hate to see your potential wasted. There’s so much more we could achieve together.”

From somewhere in the audience, Knight-Captain Fornier shoved his way towards Imshael. He looked livid, but Imshael had finished speaking. He gave Fornier a disconcertingly mellow smile and ambled off, as if a man turned into crystal was an everyday occurrence.

Fornier cleared his throat and cast an unreadable sidelong glance at the humming statue of his former second-in-command. “Consider this area off limits. Leave,” he ordered. “Immediately.”

Nicolas couldn’t fail to note that Fornier had made no mention of keeping quiet. There didn’t seemed to be much point. What exactly could they do? They could hardly consider quitting lyrium.

The dispersal was a slow one. All but those who had been most severely influenced by red lyrium’s mental changes had to feel some kind of dread, but even now, the song called out. It was already becoming hard to see Erasmus’ mortal remains as anything other than the substance they craved every waking and sleeping moment.

There was a small cluster of Knights-Corporal arguing on the borders of the training ground. Nicolas spotted Laval, finger stabbing angrily at a woman from the Cumberland Circle. Etien was there too, caught in a low but equally heated conversation with his fellow White Spire Knights-Corporal. Whatever the topic was, it did not look civil. Nicolas gave them a wide berth as he and other Ghislaian templars reformed in a bewildered, disordered mass on their own training ground.

Coutte rejoined them on the training ground, compulsively clenching and unclenching a fist marred by a scatter of lyrium growths. The tracery of lurid veins across her face and neck was stark against her ghoulish pallor. “Drills are finished for the day,” she informed them curtly. “Return to the barracks.”

“Andraste’s ass,” Harper sighed as she led the way back to the keep. “I need a drink.”

They all did. They were always thirsty. The thirst came a little earlier every day too.

Nicolas slowed as they drifted off the training ground. Sybelle stood in the lee of a snow drift to one side. She seemed so frozen in place that it had taken a moment before Nicolas even realised she was there. She stared fixedly in the direction of where Knight-Lieutenant Erasmus had been overwhelmed by lyrium, as still as a statue of lyrium herself.

Nicolas approached her warily. “Sybelle?”

She seemed to shake herself out of a daze. The aggression she had demonstrated during the drills was nowhere in evidence, or she had simply regained some modicum of control over it. It was a painfully rare moment.

“Nicolas,” she replied slowly, as if the words no longer came easily to her. She was losing herself and he could only watch. “Can we— can we talk?”

“Of course. What is it?”

She shook her head. “Not here. Meet me in my tent.”

She streaked away before Nicolas could reply, all restless and barely-contained energy. Like the red lyrium horrors. It was easier not to see them as people, but of course they were. Sybelle couldn't become one of them. He followed, already dreading what she might have to say.

The keep was quiet as they returned. Word was already spreading. The barracks were even quieter as Nicolas slipped into the tent after Sybelle and shuffled awkwardly until he could sit on a bedroll without stabbing himself with his sword. She settled herself down on the opposite bedroll, shoulders hunched.

“What will people say?” Nicolas asked, a brief smirk attempting to lighten the bleak mood.

Sybelle rolled her eyes and offered a feeble chuckle. “Your pristine reputation will be ruined…” she retorted weakly.

Her head drooped as she spoke. She tucked her hands into her armpits with a sudden shiver. Nicolas’ suppressed a flinch. Maker have mercy. Cold hands? They didn’t feel the cold any more. He could only pray that it wasn’t withdrawal. Their stockpile was good enough that the senior officers could probably afford to offer an increase in ration to those that needed it. Or they might not care.

“So, what was it you wanted to say?” he asked.

She looked away from him suddenly, as if embarrassed of the glow that lit her eyes. “I’ve not been feeling myself lately. How is Etien?” she said awkwardly, “ I hope you—”

“Maker above, Sybelle. You didn’t drag me all the way here to have this conversation again, did you?” Nicolas snapped. He glowered at her, hoping the expression made itself clear even if she refused to make eye contact.

Sybelle held up a hand in apology. “Sorry. No, that’s not why I wanted to speak. I-” she cast a despairing look up to the rippling ceiling of the tent. “Just look, Nicolas.”

She stripped off a pauldron without any ceremony and muttered what sounded like a prayer.

Nicolas couldn’t stop a sharp intake of breath. He started backwards. “Maker.”

A tiny forest of crystal growths poked up through the leather underneath her pauldron, pulsating with a bloody red glow that lit the canvas tent wall behind her. The dim light picked out her features, highlighting her chin and a sharp cheekbone. It wasn’t as bad as the more complete transformations on others, or Maker forbid, as what had happened to Erasmus. But it was a distant threat on them. One he prayed wouldn’t strike him. On someone he had known for near twenty years, it was horrific.

She buckled her pauldron back on with nimble fingers, covering up the deformity and cutting off the faintly throbbing light. “The other shoulder is the same,” she stated flatly. She picked up the lyrium shard about her neck and began to toy with it. “I won’t be able to keep it hidden for much longer.”

Nicolas hunted for something, anything he could say. How could you reassure someone who was being faced with a fall into corruption or death or an imminent fall into madness? A simple ‘I’m sorry’ would be as welcome as a trip to the void.

“Does your Knight-Corporal know?” He winced as he said the words. That probably hadn’t been the best response.

She did an admirable job of hiding her sudden flinch, but he knew her too well not curse himself for the callous remark. “Not yet,” she said brittlely. But I’ll need to tell him soon.”

Nicolas shifted and cleared his throat. How in the Maker’s name could he respond? Sybelle looked crushed. Nothing like the vibrant woman he knew.

“Maker, Sybelle. I don’t know what to say,” he replied helplessly.

“Lie to me. Tell me to have faith. I don’t know.”

“You deserve something a bit better than that.” He eased himself over to her side of the tent and gently wrapped a supporting arm around her shoulders. She was shaking slightly. Small, sobbing movements.

“Maybe I should volunteer for Imshael,” she said finally. The lyrium shard dropped back on her breastplate with a discordant ring. “Clearly this thing hasn’t done me much good.”

Nicolas arm tightened about her shoulders. “Maker above. You can’t be serious, Sybelle. You’ve seen what happened to those that Imshael gets a hold of.”

“It’s going to happen eventually. Maybe he can help me keep it under control. Make it useful. I don’t know.” She shrugged helplessly. “I don’t want to lose myself, Nicolas.”

Nicolas leaned down to catch her downcast eyes. “You don’t need Imshael to help you. You can keep this under control yourself.”

“What happens if I can’t? Maker above, Nicolas. You can’t let me end up like Caliban. He’s hardly a person any more.””

Nicolas couldn’t stop himself from shuddering. Sybelle could hardly have missed it, but he attempted to adopt a reassuring tone. “He’s still Caliban.”

She snorted out a disbelieving laugh. “Of course he isn’t. He can’t string a sentence together. He doesn’t eat. He doesn’t sleep. He doesn’t drink anything other than lyrium.”

“Listen to me, Sybelle. It won’t happen to you,” he responded insistently. “It’s not a lie or one of those platitudes you hate. Remeber how long we spent agonising over those mental focus exercises before we ever took lyrium? You were just as good as the rest of us. You won’t let this overtake you.”

“Maker send that you’re right, Nicolas. I am scared and angry all the time. I think I'm already losing my mind.” She hesitated and ran a tentative hand over her pauldron. “I hope the Maker is still listening to us,” she added quietly.

Nicolas nodded ever so slightly. Had they been abandoned? By the Chantry, or the Lord Seeker, or the absent General Samson, or the mysterious Elder One? By the Maker Himself? He prayed every day for an answer. Lately he had begun to pray that there even _was_ an answer. In the increasingly rare times of quiet, when the lyrium song was a little less strident, he feared what they were becoming. There was a growing treacherous voice in his mind that said maybe, just maybe, they deserved this.


	13. Discord in Suledin Keep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is actually the first chapter I wrote. It's changed a huge amount as the rest of the story has taken shape, but everything formed around the themes here.
> 
> One day I might manage an entirely cheerful story. This really isn't it.

Nicolas fanned out his cards in his hand and inspected them for a moment, expression perfectly neutral. He tossed down a pair of polished pebbles. None of them had had any coin even before they had ended up stuck in a frozen ruin in the back end of a miserable corner of Orlais, but no one would ever dream of playing without a bet. This was normal. They were normal. They weren’t monsters.

He eyed his opponents arrayed about the paving slab they had set up as a makeshift table. The lantern light made ghouls out of faces that were already unnaturally pale, hollowing cheeks and eye sockets even further.

It would have been horrific, not so long ago, but when every face looked the same, it was astounding how quickly it became meaningless. Hard experience was teaching them to maintain the fine balance required of red lyrium use, thanks as much to their early losses as Imshael’s experimentation. You either accepted the changes that were being wrought, or you went mad.

The consistent reddish gleam of the flat return looks made the faces nigh on unreadable. They had all served for years in their respective Circles, where impassivity was rigidly enforced. The lyrium glow made it even harder to read the faces looking back at him. But everyone had a tell. Harper could outstare a demon, but her restless hands always gave her away. Etien was motionless enough to blend in with the stones against which he leant when he knew he had a good hand.

Once, Sybelle had been the most readable of them all. But she had been changed the most of them all. For all his reassurance, they had both know there was faint hope of any further growth being suppressed. Practice had taught his gaze to slide politely over the forest of crystal growths that had bloomed across her shoulders and down her spine. Whether it was simply the most reasonable choice, or callous indifference, hers and others’ armour had been adapted to suit the changes. She no longer even wore her pauldrons. Even had she been able to fit them over her shoulders, the crystal was far more durable than simple steel.

Thank the Maker Imshael had more than enough subjects to play with that he didn’t take everyone showing the changes. Sybelle was safe. Safe, but she only showed flickers of her old self these days. It was almost physically painful to see how much she had been changed.

Maker forgive him, but he was thankful it wasn’t him.

The gentle glow that the crystal cast over Sybelle’s wan skin was near as good as candle light, but no one was crass enough to suggest discarding the lantern. Likewise, the nearby camp fire was more for the illusion of normality than a source of heat. Nicolas wasn’t even wearing his gauntlets. Red lyrium ran them far hotter than normal lyrium. The unnatural chill that hung like a shroud over the Emprise had actually seemed to worsen as they had moved through the height of summer and into autumn. Entire waterfalls had been frozen solid for months. A particularly cold gust of air sent fat flakes of snow whirling through the air from the nearby snowdrift, as if to prove the point.

Harper looked irritably at her dwindling pile of substitute coins and set her cards onto the table with a grunt. Her hands shook almost uncontrollably. She would have a difficult night, if she was able to sleep at all. “We have to be ready in a few hours, Nicolas,” she muttered. “Why not finish stealing all my worldly possessions some other day?”

Nicolas exchanged a look with Sybelle and Etien. Sybelle shrugged awkwardly, crystal chiming discordantly with her movement. Etien quirked a half smile at Nicolas that said he was willing to stay longer. The times when they could pretend that nothing had changed since they had all been recruits together in a serene templar monastery were all but gone. Their journey here was a distant memory.

“A few more hands for us,” he told Harper. “I’ll be ready for the patrol.”

Harper stood and grabbed the flask that had been by her side for the entire game in a smooth sweep. Pent up energy made the movement too sharp and abrupt to be entirely natural. It would have been jarring once, but that was something else to which they barely paid any attention these days.

She prowled off into the night with a vague farewell and a casual salute for Etien. Her direction would take her out to their makeshift drill grounds rather than the lines of tents. Likely she felt much the same as Nicolas. Aggression and the need for action always burned just beneath the surface. The longer you took red lyrium, the less sleep became necessary. And the less it appealed.

They played a few more hands in companionable silence. It wasn’t until Sybelle cut off with a crystalline cough that Nicolas realised that all three had been humming a discordant tune that twined through the wind whistling through broken archways. Almost but not quite the beautifully dissonant melody of red lyrium that hummed in his blood and dominated his thoughts. The illusion of normality shattered almost instantly.

Sybelle tossed her cards down with an irritated hiss and folded her arms. “Why did I ever join the Order?” she growled, jaw working angrily.

Nicolas raised an eyebrow, as if they weren’t all wishing they had never become templars. “Weren’t you given to the Order?” he asked in a vague attempt to lighten her mood.

“Chantry orphan,” she corrected him impatiently. “I was only ever destined for either the Order or the Chantry. Shouldn’t we have a choice in the matter?”

“We’re hardly better off,” Nicolas pointed out. He looked over at Etien. “Remind Sybelle. When did you ‘join’?”

Etien set his cards down on the table. “Officially, when I was eight. But my parents had tutors prepare me from age six.” He sketched a sarcastic bow in the air with his hand. “Even the fifth son of nobles must never let the family name down.”

Nicolas tapped his own chest, rapping the steel of his breastplate. “I was promised to the Order when I was four,” he reminded her. “I suppose that makes it twenty-two years now.”

Sybelle scowled, red eyes turning the expression baleful. “I’m aware. We were all in the same cohort. And look where it got us.”

Crystal chimed again as she rolled her shoulders restlessly. That she had sat still for so long was impressive in its own right. Templars showing such obvious changes could rarely face such extended idleness.

Nicolas set down his own cards and leaned forwards. “We could have died at the Conclave. Etien could have been murdered in the White Spire uprising.” He gave Etien a strained smile as he spoke. “We could have been killed when the Inquisition took Therinfal or in the failed attack on Haven. We could be far worse off.”

“Look at what’s happened to me, Nicolas. It _is_ worse. Thank the Maker I didn’t have someone like Etien handing me over to Imshael.”

Nicolas heard a sharp intake of breath from Etien. He looked on the verge of saying something particularly biting, only holding back at the last moment. “I take care of the men under my command as best as I can given the situation we’re in,” he retorted with an admirable level of calm.

“You weren’t there, Sybelle,” Nicolas added. “Etien did everything he could.”

“Right. It’s not like you could really understand anything I’m saying anyway, Nicolas,” Sybelle scoffed. Her expression morphed from simmering anger to a sneer. It was an ugly, cruel expression on a face he had known since childhood. She stabbed a finger at him as she continued, voice rising. “You think you’re so much holier than the rest of us because you swore a vow of celibacy.”

White-hot anger flared in Nicolas until he could barely hear more than the rush of lyrium through his blood and its siren song calling for blood. Her blood. Any blood.

He shot to his feet in one sinuous movement. “Say that again, Sybelle.”

Sybelle rose to her own feet, templar grace amplified to deadly elegance. She might have been half a head shorter than Nicolas, but the crystal growths made her seem far bulkier.

“You heard me, Nicolas,” she snapped. “Etien’s too polite, so I’ll say what we both thought at the time. You didn’t care about anyone but yourself when you chose to swear that vow.”

Nicolas barked out a derisive laugh. “So you’ve finally found the courage to admit what you think.”

“It shouldn’t have taken me this long.” She shook off the calming hand that Etien laid on her arm. “All your self-serving sanctimonious arrogance makes me sick”

Through the roaring lyrium song, Nicolas just heard Etien’s shocked oath.

Speech failed him. His hand settled on his sword. Before he could even clasp the hilt properly, Sybelle’s hand shot out with incredible speed. A gauntleted hand gripped his throat, fingers digging into the exposed skin above the collar of his mail shirt. Nicolas’ air cut off to a thin wheezing trickle. Sybelle’s other hand closed about the fist clutched in a death grip about the hilt of his sword, squeezing until the bones grated against each other. Nicolas pushed against her hold until an inch of steel showed above the scabbard.

“Try me, Nicolas,” she hissed venomously.

They had both received the same training. She might be far stronger now, but Nicolas slipped expertly out of her choke hold before his vision began to blacken around the edges. A distant voice of rationality reminded him that he had to stop before he made a mistake. It was a very distant voice.

“Gladly,” he snapped. The rawness of his throat combined with the red lyrium buzz made his speech more like the rattle of a shade than something human.

“Nicolas. Sybelle.” Etien’s voice finally broke through. Worry had roughed his voice almost as much as Nicolas’. “You know how this works. Paranoia. Aggression. _We_ must be in control, not the lyrium.”

Nicolas glared into Sybelle’s blazing eyes — a perfect match to his own scarlet glare — for a long moment before nodding curtly. He slammed his sword back into its scabbard. He couldn't say whether the hiss was his own angry exhalation or the ring of his sword.

“Control,” he agreed through gritted teeth. As much as his mind begged for leave to kill her for the insult. They had to be in control. They were templars and she was his oldest friend, not an enemy. For all that she — they — had changed.

“Maker give me strength,” Sybelle snapped with despairing anger, before she broke eye contact.

She stalked away without risking a further word, out towards the uninhabited portions of the fort. There was nothing out there but snow and silence and the faint hope of peace. With anger roaring through his mind and stiffening his muscles, Nicolas wavered on the edge of following her.

He focused instead on his laboured breathing, the rasp heavy in the muffling silence of the snow around them. He drew on all the old mental exercises. Focus. Control. It certainly wouldn’t be a good idea to call a smite down on Sybelle’s retreating back, visible as a faint red glow against pure snow. It didn’t matter that he recognised the instinct as a product of red lyrium’s song. He still wanted to do it. Instead, he counted heartbeats, forcing the aggression back into the recesses of his mind.

He almost drew his sword again when Etien’s hand settled on his shoulder. “You know how difficult this must be for her,” he said. “She’ll regret what she said when she finds quiet.”

The reassurance seemed as much for Etien as Nicolas. For all they knew, this was the new norm for Sybelle, just as it was for all the templars who showed the signs she had. Permanent heightened aggression. Permanent paranoia above and beyond what they all already felt. It was a minor miracle that the force held together as well as it did. Most retained their minds, but some had not been so lucky. Caliban and Beck were utterly lost to the lyrium that had warped them into hulking behemoths. Imshael and Knight-Captain Fornier treated them little better than Fereldan warhounds.

Nicolas exhaled and shifted to keep Sybelle in view. “Maker forgive me, but I’m losing control more and more often. It’s like … like…”

“Like the song commands our every move,” Etien completed wearily.

“Exactly,” he sighed. “It’s worst in the quarry. I admire how you keep it in check.”

Etien winced. “I have my own problems. It’s becoming … difficult.”

Etien pulled him away from the view as Sybelle slipped through a broken archway. Deft fingers lifted his chin and inspected the damage to his neck under the light cast by the campfire. Nicolas couldn’t feel any pain there, but it had to be raw. Sybelle’s grip had come close to crushing bone. The blossoming bruises would be stark against his ashen skin.

Etien tutted quietly. “We ought to get the surgeon to take a look.” His expression grew a touch darker. “Especially if you’re due to head down into Sahrnia later.”

Nicolas tugged the collar of his robes a little higher. “It will be almost healed by morning.” Healed and perhaps left a little stiffer when the red lyrium knitted together far faster than flesh and bone ever could.

Etien didn’t seem especially reassured. “The price we pay for our abilities,” he replied to Nicolas’ unspoken thought. His eyes flickered over Nicolas’ face. Nicolas knew that Etien’s eyes had been a pale shade of green, once, but he couldn’t even begin to remember what they had looked like. Any trace of their original colour was complete lost behind a crimson glow that had bled into the whites of his eyes in a hazy ring. “What Sybelle said. I don’t think that,” he added quietly.

“Don’t you?” Nicolas snapped, a flicker of aggression momentarily breaking free of his control.

“No. I don’t. You are as dedicated to the Order as I was. Taking that vow was your right.”

“Maker.” He closed his eyes. They were too close, but he couldn’t face pulling away. “I’m sorry, Etien.”

He wasn’t sure what for any more. Everything, probably. This whole sordid mess in the Emprise du Lion. How he had handled himself eight years ago. Any small misstep or mistake or simple blind ignorance.

“No apology is necessary,” Etien replied softly. “Never from you, Nicolas.”

His fingers remained on Nicolas’ chin. The moment stretched. The clinical touch suddenly became something more. Nicolas drew in a sharp breath and his eyes snapped open as Etien’s gloved hand traced the line of his jaw, rasping over hints of stubble. Glowing eyes flicked up to meet Nicolas’s with a heat that couldn’t be accounted for by their subdued red illumination. The delicate wisps of light traced features that Nicolas knew better than his own.

His expression was one Nicolas recognised from so long ago, one that he’d seen when they had met again eight months ago and had refused to recognise. Grief for what had been lost. Yearning.

He found himself leaning closer, until the plumes of their erratic exhalations mixed in the cold air and their foreheads almost touched. His hand drifted up of its own accord to settle comfortably at Etien’s waist.

It was wrong. He had sworn a vow. But the voice that screamed that was smothered by the roaring song.

This close, he could smell the hot metal of lyrium on Etien’s breath. He could almost hear it. He wondered what it tasted like on his lips. On his tongue. He might feel its fire burning beneath his skin. The hungry look in Etien’s eyes and his elevated breathing said he was thinking the same.

But the moment broke. Etien’s eyes widened in sudden horror and dropped his hand, taking a long step away. The lyrium haze clouding his mind dissipated as he gasped sharply. He and Etien hauled in shaking breaths almost in unison. The burning desire faded as quickly as the aggression had, but the memory of fingers caressing his jaw remained. Maker forgive him. He had been so close to falling.

“Andraste be my guide,” Etien breathed, dismay dimming the lyrium buzz in his voice. “I’m — I’m so sorry, Nicolas. I don’t know what came over me. I said I had my own problems, but that’s no excuse…”

Nicolas scrubbed at his face and turned away. He was shivering and he couldn’t seem to stop. “It’s fine,” he whispered. “I’m fine.”

He shook his head, desperately trying to dispel the thoughts. He felt vaguely nauseous. A large part of him had desperately wanted — still wanted — that comfort. To forget everything in the heat of the moment and the press of skin on skin. The fire of red lyrium. But he had sworn a vow. Those couldn’t be tossed aside on a whim.

Nicolas untensed slightly as he heard Etien back away. “Forgive me,” he murmured.

“I’m hardly blameless,” he replied weakly. His fingers caressed the shard on the chain about his neck. He wanted to rip it off and throw it away. He couldn’t bear the thought of losing it.

He was on the verge of walking away when Etien spoke again. “What have we done to ourselves, Nicolas?”

Nicolas turned back. Etien had slumped back onto the chunk of stone he had been using as a seat. He was unconsciously mirroring Nicolas’s movement, toying with the lyrium about his neck.

“What we had to.” His voice sounded harsh and bitter even to his own ears. Keep saying it often enough and he might start to believe it again. “We serve the greater good.”

“We used to.” He sighed and studied Nicolas through his fingers. “Some of the older templars fantasise about retirement. Not many of us would have made it to retirement with our minds intact, or even alive, but I suppose they needed that fantasy.”

Nicolas blinked at Etien, nonplussed enough by the abrupt change in topic that his dismay faded. “Most of us would have ended up transferred to Val Royeaux. But what’s this about?”

“There is a monastery full of those who don’t make it to retirement,” he continued, dodging the question. “I served in Val Royeaux, but I was never required to visit, thank the Maker. They must still be there.”

“Even now that the Nevarran Accord is void? They might have been abandoned when the Lord Seeker left Val Royeaux.”

Etien shuddered. “I don’t know, but I pray the Chantry has the decency to continue supporting them.”

Nicolas grimaced as he finally followed the track the conversation was taking. “But there is no ‘retirement’ monastery for us here, and we haven’t seen those who lost their minds in the early days. They just,” he waved a hand in the air, “disappeared. No one talks about it. As before, I suppose,” he added guiltily.

“That’s what they were hoping. There was nowhere suitable to look after all those who fell to lyrium in the early days.” He wiped the palm of his hand along the hilt of his sword, looking vaguely ill. “They were granted mercy instead.”

Nicolas’ breath caught. “Canticle of Apotheosis. The Sword of Mercy,” he said, emphasising the Chantry definition of the word. He closed his eyes and offered up a short prayer before continuing. “Meaning Knight-Captain Fornier had them killed. For being what? Inconvenient?”

“They were dangerous, the Knight-Captain said. And Maker forgive me, but I believed him.”

“Maker above, Etien,” Nicolas exclaimed quietly, heart in his mouth. “Did _you_ kill them?”

“Not many. But even one would have been too many,” he murmured, eyes squeezed tightly shut against Nicolas’ accusatory glare. “Until Imshael arrived. He found they were more useful as experiments. And then I wished they _had_ been granted Mercy.”

“And those who vocally disagreed with what was happening here? They disappeared too.”

“The same. Or they were given to Imshael,” he replied bleakly. “It wasn’t by my hand, but I knew what was happening. There were so many times when I wished I could simply admit what we were doing, but I was a fool.”

“This is— this is wrong, Etien. Killing our own. Using the people down in the quarry like fertilizer in an orchard. It’s wrong.”

“You think I don’t know that?” he retorted. “There’s nothing I can do to change anything here.”

“You could desert,” Nicolas suggested flatly.

Etien’s eyes widened. “Maker have mercy. That’s not a joke to make, Nicolas. You know what they do to deserters.” He hesitated. “Would you consider leaving?”

Nicolas shook his head and tried to pretend it was just his imagination that added an unspoken finish to the question. _Would you consider leaving with me?_ If he had asked it outright, Maker knew if he would be able to refuse with his barriers in tatters.

“Hollow as it might sound, I can’t break my vows. Not and still call myself a templar.”

Etien smile was empty. “They might already be broken.”

“They might,” he snapped. Maybe he had wanted Etien to voice those unspoken words. _Leave with me_. But he hadn’t. “Even so, I can’t forsake them.”

He tried not to think of the dreams that weren’t dreams. Or how close he had come to abandoning his vow of celibacy on a tide of emotion and longing. Maker knew if that had even been lyrium or his own mind. For all that he had said he couldn’t break his vows, they had almost certainly deformed until he could barely claim to be adhering to them. The only one he could rightfully say he had kept perfectly was a vow of poverty, and that seemed rather irrelevant under the circumstances.

“At least you’re responsible for no one but yourself,” Etien retorted equally angrily. “There are ten men under my command. I can’t just abandon them.”

“Of course. But—”

Etien snapped to his feet. “No. I’ve killed templars, Nicolas, and I had complete control of my mind when Imshael ordered us to begin the seeding process. But I followed my orders like a good templar. And so my vows are in tatters. The only thing keeping me going is that responsibility. Without it, I’m a blighted monster. Worse than Caliban or Beck because I know _exactly_ what I’m doing.”

Nicolas had begun to pace. The bitter and unthinking profanity from a man who never swore ought to have shocked him out of this spiralling argument. But Maker forgive him, he couldn’t stop, just as he’d been unable to pull away before.

“So you’ll sit and do nothing, hoping it all goes away.”

Nicolas hadn’t heard Etien laugh since they had arrived in Emprise du Lion. Etien’s laugh now was nothing like how he remembered it sounding. It was high and disbelieving, laced with the aggressive hum of lyrium. “And your attitude is so much better, is it? Maybe Sybelle was right. You’re so caught up on the idea of being a servant of the Maker that you’ve forgotten what it is we serve.”

“Void take you, Etien.” There was a buzzing at the back of his mind. Urging him on. “I know exactly what we serve.”

Etien gave a disbelieving chuckle and began counting off facts on his fingers. “Are you so sure? The Order obeys the Elder One. A man we know nothing about and have never seen. There is a chevalier in Sahrnia who says that Imshael is a demon. General Samson is nowhere to be found. Rumour has it the Lord Seeker was an Envy demon, of all things. We are allied with magisters out of Tevinter.” He folded the fingers into a fist. “Maker knows why we continue to serve the Elder One.”

“I don’t know or care who the Elder One is. We serve the Maker, not him.”

“I’m not so sure. The Maker could never tolerate what we’ve done. We’ve lost all our honour.”

“Your noble blood is showing,” he replied, before he could think better of voicing the barbed comment. “Chevaliers can spend their lives chasing whatever they happen to define as honour, but it’s meaningless. We are _templars_. We are required to make the difficult decisions so that others don’t have to. So that they can be safe. And to do that, we have to be willing to make any sacrifice.”

They didn’t even feel like his words so much as Knight-Captain Fornier’s, for all that he had believed it wholeheartedly once. He found himself spitting the declarations of faith back out anyway.

“Self sacrifice, yes. Any price to ensure others are protected, to make sure an abomination doesn’t murder hundreds or a Circle doesn’t fall.” He gestured at the keep around them. “Not this. Who exactly are we protecting? Ourselves?”

“You’re twenty-six, Etien. Don’t pretend you know better than templars who’ve served as long as we’ve been alive. I have to believe we continue to serve the Maker here, twisted as that path might be.”

“I used to admire your idealism, but you were never this naive.”

“Call it naivety if you like, but I swore to give myself entirely over to the Order’s calling. Doubt can’t have a place in that.”

“Then maybe you made the wrong decision.”

“Maybe,” he retorted acidly. “But it’s a little too late to go back on anything now, isn’t it? The words have been said. Vows have been made.”

His fist clenched, waking shards of pain in his knuckles, distinct from the background hum in his nerves. He was dangerously close to lashing out. This was how it always worked. Joy. Doubt. Fear. Even desire. They were inevitably corrupted into anger.

Control. He breathed in and out, leaning heavily on the old exercises for mental focus. It was like climbing a smooth wall in full plate. The fist unclenched. The pain stayed.

“I’m going for a walk,” he continued tightly. “Good night, Ser.”

He looked over his shoulder once as he stalked off. Etien stood in the circle of firelight. He looked stricken, features drawn and painfully gaunt. As Nicolas began to turn away, he saw Etien slump to the floor and rest his head in his hands. 

_Would you consider leaving with me?_

The anger was fading as quickly as it had risen. The angry buzz of lyrium at the back of his mind was quieting too. In its place rose a sick disgust in himself and what he carried in his veins.


	14. Final Days

Nicolas dozed in the lee of the window overlooking the quarry, one hand clamped around the lyrium shard about his neck, feeling its heat and the pleasant buzz in his skin. He was thirsty, but he ignored it. The craving was getting worse, the thirst arriving sooner. Maker knew how much longer it would be before his own hands shook with need each morning.

At least the hand cradling the shard was normal flesh and bone. Drained of any colour, but blessedly free of any corruption. Or at least, any obvious corruption. It was still dark enough that he could see the dim gleam of lyrium through his skin. Only in his veins, where it belonged, thank the Maker.

Perhaps a part of him had hoped that Sybelle or Etien might pass by given the spot he had chosen. For all that had been said and done, Etien was right. In the quiet, it was easier to look back and regret the things that had been said and done.

But he passed the hours in silence, scared beyond belief that everything they had done had been for nothing. When the time came to muster for their Sahrnia patrol, he shuddered. The shard of lyrium dropped to his chest with a haunting chime.

Knight-Lieutenant Coutte had hoped they would only be required to do that grim duty once. Then only once more. Then again, and again. Even once she had begun to suffer too much from red lyrium’s influence to command her men any longer, the expeditions had continued. Nicolas hasn’t always been a part of the expeditions. But it had been often enough that he had no right to claim his hands were any cleaner than anyone else’s.

Red lyrium was hungry and the Maker’s service required them to make impossible decisions. Too many had fallen now. They had no choice but to continue on or waste the lives that had been lost.

He dragged himself out of his refuge barely half an hour before muster, still feeling like his mind had been coated in filth. He looked briefly for Sybelle or Etien as he trudged towards the gatehouse, hoping once again to stumble across them. But there was no time to seek them out.

He wasn’t quite the last to arrive at the muster point, but it was close. Even so, Knight-Lieutenant Klimt didn’t bother with anything more than a cursory reprimand as Nicolas settled into his position beside Cartier. He paid even less attention to the final straggler when he joined the squad, crystalline arm spurs glowing faintly in the darkness.

Knight-Captain Fornier hadn’t yet made an appearance, and he valued punctuality far more than any of the other officers. Nicolas exchanged a hooded look with Cartier. The other man shrugged minutely.

They waited. Even without the stern gaze of Laval and Klimt to keep them disciplined, casual conversation was a thing of the past. Waiting was simpler.

By the time Knight-Captain Fornier arrived, the first touch of sunshine had begun to set the snowdrifts glittering. It was far too late to even consider infiltrating Sahrnia. Something had to be wrong.

A pair of scouts trailed Fornier, bows strung as if they had only just returned from their patrols. He exchanged a few hushed words with Knight-Lieutenant Klimt before turning a harried look on the squad. He hurried off towards the interior of the keep without a word of explanation.

“The Sahrnia patrol has been cancelled,” Klimt snapped, concern sharpening the edges of his precise Cumberland accent. “Muster on the parade ground in one hour.”

The Knight-Lieutenant rushed off after Knight-Captain Fornier almost as soon as he finished speaking, supplies for Mistress Poulin left in a forgotten heap by the gatehouse entrance. Knight-Corporal Laval trailed after Klimt, giving none of them time to ask for clarification.

Discipline held long enough for the officers to disappear before apathetic speculation broke out. Another crisis in Suledin Keep. None of them were even surprised any more.

-

The keep hummed with more activity than it had done in weeks. Every templar in Suledin Keep seemed to have been roused, regardless of the rotation to which they were assigned. Nicolas and Cartier hurried away from the long lines for lyrium and towards the barracks. After the length of the line, there would barely be time to prepare their draughts before they were due to muster.

Nicolas rounded and corner and slowed as Etien’s familiar figure drew into sight. He stood in the lee of a gnarled tree poking out of the uneven flagstones, watching every templar who passed him by.

He straightened and hurried forwards as he spotted Nicolas. “Thank the Maker,” he called out, his haunted look fading away slightly. “I thought you might—” He stopped as Cartier drew into view and saluted. “Good day, Ser Tadreau,” he continued guardedly.

“Good day, Knight-Corporal,” Cartier replied. He looked between Nicolas and Etien, a frown wrinkling around the fragments of lyrium dusting the arch of one brow. When neither made any attempt to speak further, he cleared his throat. “If you don’t mind, Ser, do you have any word about the emergency that called away Knight-Captain Fornier and our commanding officers?”

“You’ll be updated in the Knight-Captain’s address.”

Cartier nodded diffidently. Etien was a Knight-Lieutenant in all but name now that Erasmus was lost to lyrium. “Of course, Ser. But anything you can tell us...” he hazarded.

“I can inform you of this much.” He glanced over at Nicolas. His eyes seemed to the abyss itself. “Inquisition forces have been sighted. By the end of the day, they will have entrenched themselves outside Sahrnia.”

Cartier stiffened, hand going instinctively for the hilt of his weapon. “Andraste’s flaming sword,” he swore.

A pit seemed to have opened beneath Nicolas’ feet. He managed the few paces necessary to slump against the gnarled tree before his legs gave way. He rested icy metal fingertips on his closed eyelids. “Maker give us strength. How long before they reach us?”

“Impossible to say,” Etien replied curtly. “Before Suledin Keep, we have wide ranging patrols in Highgrove. Then the forward bases at Drakon’s Rise and the Tower of Bone. I imagine the Inquisition scouts will wait for reinforcements and possibly even the Inquisitor’s arrival. A matter of weeks, I would guess.”

“Maybe they don’t know we’re here, Ser,” Cartier said numbly.

Nicolas and Etien turned matched disbelieving looks on him. “Assume they know, Ser Tadreau,” Etien replied with the barest hint of withering scorn.

Nicolas shook off his daze. “I expect we’ll be sent to reinforce the forward bases then.”

Etien could hardly inform them of the Knight-Captain’s plans, but he nodded once and ran a hand through his hair. The look he gave Nicolas said all he needed. For all his status, Etien had severe doubts.

“There might be an advantage,” Cartier offered. “I had heard they have the ability to seal the Fade rifts, Ser. Was that right?”

Etien chuckled without much humour. “It was, but that would mean allowing them through our defences. You might find yourself at the end of an Inquisition blade.”

Cartier’s eyes narrowed. “We are better than a group of half-trained heretics and their Fade-corrupted figurehead, even without red lyrium. Ser,” he said curtly, treading close to the line of insubordination.

“Yes, of course,” Nicolas replied flatly, hurrying out a response before Etien. The simmering resentment in Etien’s gleaming eyes looked close to erupting.

Cartier gave the pair another measuring look before stepping back smoothly and offering a perfunctory salute to Etien. “I’ll meet you in ten minutes, Nicolas. Good day, Knight-Corporal.”

Cartier swaggered away, looking almost eager for the coming battle. No doubt his perspective would be a common one. After months in the Emprise du Lion, they were finally being given a chance to face the heretics that Knight-Captain Fornier had denounced so long ago.

But Nicolas found that his opinion had shifted so slowly as to be almost imperceptible. They couldn’t be any worse than Tevinter magisters. They hadn’t sacrificed their own people, or innocents. They had closed the breach in the Veil. They might be heretics, but he didn’t know what he thought of them any more.

“Maker, Nicolas,” Etien said quietly when Cartier had disappeared out of view. “I was worried your squad had left for Sahrnia before we received word.” He hesitated as Nicolas struggled to order his thoughts. “I thought about your suggestion, you know,” he added.

“And?” Nicolas asked, heart in his mouth.

“It’s a moot point now, with the Inquisition having laid claim to the pass.” He took in his appearance with a smooth sweep of his hand. Ashen skin flushed with the false colouring of lyrium, red eyes gleaming with feverish brightness from hollow eye sockets, prominent veins spidering across his gaunt cheeks. He was being consumed, just as Erasmus had been. Just as they all were. “They would kill me without even stopping to ask questions. There is no mercy for Red Templars, and certainly not for any kind of officer, if I even deserved it.” His mouth twisted in disgust as he spoke the pejorative given to them by the outside world. He thumbed the shard about his neck. “And we—” he caught himself as Nicolas flinched, “I can hardly stop taking red lyrium now. Even if by some miracle they accepted my surrender, I doubt they would provide my rations. I would be dead within the week.”

Nicolas exhaled a breath he hadn’t know he had been holding. He had been wrong to hope for anything different. He had sworn himself to the Order and the Order alone. Vows weren’t things to be tossed aside just because they became difficult to keep.

“All true,” he replied neutrally. “Anyway, you were right to say that I shouldn’t have even suggested it.”

Nicolas’ mind drifted towards the rumours about Imshael. They said he was a demon. But they also said he could draw the red lyrium out of them entirely. Maybe there was a chance for all of them to return to what they had once been.

An impossible dream. Red lyrium bound them more than Chantry lyrium ever had.

“That’s not what I meant. Maker, I’m not even sure what I _do_ mean.” He shifted uncomfortably. “I regret so much over the past months. And last night, I said and did some things I shouldn’t have, but I need to—”

“Etien, whatever it is you're trying to say, there's no point. it's too late.”

“Is it?” he asked quietly, shoulders slumping.

“It has to be. Maker. You meant every word you said last night.” Naive. Because he had — or at least had once had — unwavering faith. This was what the Order had come to. It couldn’t be for nothing. "So did I.” He eyed the lyrium vial nestled in his palm and the bloody glow it cast over the leather of his glove. “We can’t falter.”

“We can’t keep on like this, Nicolas. Maker. _I_ can’t.”

“When has there ever been a choice?” He clenched his fingers around the precious vial in his palm. Was it his imagination, or had his hand been trembling slightly? “I should go.”

He rushed away before Etien could muster up a response. There was nothing more that it would be worth saying. The Inquisition had arrived. He couldn’t afford to lose his faith now, of all times.

-

It had been a long time since every templar in Emprise du Lion had been addressed. There were less of them than there had been almost eight months ago.

Snow melted beneath their feet as they waited for another grand speech from Knight-Captain Fornier. But after only a few words about the impending confrontation, he bowed his head and intoned the Chant with the slow rhythm of a dirge and the unpredictable cadence of the lyrium song.

He raised his head as the words faded away and inspected them all with studied impassivity. “Step forward Ser Buiron of Ghislain,” he called out. “Ser Farrow of Cumberland. Ser Uther of the White Spire.” He listed a few more names, then, “Ser Sybelle of Ghislain.”

The named templars lined up under Fornier’s flat stare. Imshael’s smile grew wider with every name. Every one of them was burdened with flourishing red lyrium growths.

Nicolas almost broke rank. He choked back a protest and began to pray. Maybe it wasn’t what he thought it was. Maybe the naked fear in their faces had just been his imagination. Faith.

Etien and the White Spire remnant were assigned to reinforce the Tower of Bone base. They would be shoring up its defences and providing additional troops to protect the quarry and the keep. Nicolas didn’t know whether to be grateful or angry that his own squad was kept back to hold Suledin Keep itself.

Etien caught him by the arm before their respective squads departed. Sybelle was long gone, hurried away by a gleeful Imshael with the others. He hadn’t even had time to speak to her. “I’ll be rotated back into Suledin in a few weeks. When I return, we should talk.” When Nicolas hesitated, Etien clasped his arm briefly. The contact seemed to burn, even through protective layers of cloth and metal. “Please, Nicolas. Maybe it’s not too late.”

“Alright,” Nicolas agreed reluctantly. “Maker be with you,” he called out as Etien slipped away, unsure what else he could say that hadn’t been said long ago. “Stay safe,” he whispered quietly.

Every day, the templars assigned to the dubious safety of ruined Suldein Keep awaited news. They patrolled. They drilled. And they waited for news. The Tower of Bone was hardly far, but it might as well have been in another country. The rank and file heard precious little that wasn't filtered and sanitised by the senior officers. It was like the months before the Circles had fallen.

Cartier — like so many others — remained confident that the Inquisition would give up on the Emprise before they even started. Heretics never prevailed. For a while, Nicolas found himself caught up in the fervour. Then he saw Sybelle and tried to speak to her. She was barely willing to acknowledge him, and she hunched into herself, as if in pain beyond even the fire of red lyrium. Etien's doubts seemed the only sane words he had heard since before he had left the Ghislain Circle, when everything had been as normal as they could hope.

Two weeks later, the Inquisitor arrived and the Inquisition made its move. The Inquisitor advanced from Sahrnia to claim the small camp in Highgrove.

Almost all templars had been pulled out of the area, aside from small scouting patrols to watch the Inquisition’s movements. But even having heard of the Inquisition’s successes elsewhere, Knight-Captain Fornier was stunned by how the lightly protected camp was taken without a single Inquisition casualty. He dispatched Caliban to further reinforce the Drakon’s Rise forward base, despite Imshael’s protests that he was far too valuable to the Elder One.

And yet, even with the threat of the Inquisition on the horizon, he kept most templars in the Sahrnia quarry. Red lyrium would continue to be grown and harvested if a horde of demons came screaming through the rifts.

After a few days to consolidate and reinforce their position in Highgrove, the Inquisition moved forwards again, harried by templars in the narrow cave passages spiralling up to the quarry. Drakon’s Rise was the next major blockage to their advance.

Impossibly, the templars holding the camp fell, even Caliban. The ripple of shock seemed to shake the entire keep when they heard the news. This time, Inquisition soldiers were killed along with templars, but not enough to stop them claiming the area. The Inquisition had hundreds of reinforcements to call upon, some of them highly experienced warriors of the Order. Strict control over communications hadn't kept that information away from Suledin Keep. The templars occupying Emprise du Lion would be worn down by their own brother and sister templars. The ones to whom they had supposedly been giving independence. And cut off as they were, there would be no rescue by the Elder One.

Heavy defensive equipment was installed at Drakon’s Rise to prevent a counter-attack. Even red lyrium couldn’t stop bolts from a ballista. The Elder One might have power, but the Inquisition had Thedas’ support. Maybe they _had_ been abandoned. Maybe the Maker was with the Inquisition. An insidious and heretical thought.

The Inquisitor closed the Fade rifts that had plagued them for months as easily as breathing. The Tower of Bone forward base stood as the only barrier between the Inquisition, Sahrnia quarry, and Suledin Keep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Excuse my poetic license as I assume that the Inquisitor does not in fact conquer entire regions (especially ones full of highly trained warriors) with only four people.


	15. A Deal

No survivors.

With the forward camp at the Tower of Bone overrun, they had lost all touch with the Sahrnia quarry. That was what concerned Knight-Captain Fornier the most. That and how it might disappoint the Elder One. He had gathered every templar left defending the keep to brief them, Imshael a smugly confident presence by his side. But Nicolas had stopped listening the moment he had heard those two words.

_No survivors._

The Inquisition were nothing if not brutally efficient. They took no prisoners. Not from amongst the templars of Emprise du Lion, that was obvious. On the face of it, Nicolas couldn’t blame them. Except they couldn’t know what was happening in the quarry yet. They hadn’t been there. Barely any news entered the Emprise du Lion, let alone left it. And so all that Nicolas could think was that there had been _no_ survivors from those sent to man the forward camp. They had fought to the death as they had been ordered, as any templar — faithful or not — would have done.

But the truth was, Knight-Captain Fornier had had them sitting idle here for months on end, relying on red lyrium to keep them strong and to spur them on where duty could not. Doing nothing but overseeing frightened villagers had made them bitter or overconfident. Little wonder the driven and dedicated Inquisition had overcome someone who had lost all faith in the Order.

Awareness returned to him just long enough to note that his squad rotation would be standing double watches from noon to sunrise. He slipped away as soon as they were dismissed, ignoring those who attempted to speak to him. He found a broken tower that gave him a view towards the narrow spire of the Tower of Bone and the immense shards of red lyrium cresting its peak. The Templar Order banners that adorned the upper sections hadn’t been taken down yet. The Inquisition’s own banners were smaller scraps of colour against the pure white of snow and the virulent red of lyrium.

The icy winds whipped at Nicolas’ tabard entirely unnoticed as he stared out, hardly blinking. The flecks of ice carried in the air barely stung his eyes. In the privacy afforded by the tower and blasted by the biting winds, he had expected some physical reaction beyond the vast gaping pit that yawned in his stomach. Something human. But red lyrium ran them hot. It ran them dry too. No sweat. Certainly no tears

He sang the Prayer for the Departed to be carried away by the wind instead. He had never had a voice made for singing, and the lyrium buzz made it worse, but they wouldn’t be holding a service in Suledin Keep. Knight-Captain Fornier had halted the practice, perhaps hoping it might conceal how many templars had fallen to red lyrium. Or perhaps hoping to conceal the manner of their deaths.

He prayed the Inquisition had at least treated the bodies properly. He couldn’t see any pyre smoke against the pale skies and pristine snow, but that didn’t mean there wouldn’t be any.

He trailed off and slumped into the corner of the tower, out of the gusts of wind that threatened to topple him. The additional vow he’d chosen to take upon himself had been meant to prevent precisely this kind of problem. No attachments. Nothing but service to the Maker.

As a child given over to the Order, he hadn’t wanted to let his parents down. And then, once he had discovered how much he enjoyed the training and how much he cared about the Order’s calling, he hadn’t wanted to let _himself_ down. Only it turned out he hadn’t done such a good job after all.

He had sworn to dedicate himself entirely to serving faithfully, without question. And that faith had been exploited. The Order bore little resemblance to what it should have stood for. He had blood on his hands. Sybelle was so far gone to lyrium that she barely acknowledged him.

And Etien was dead.

He could try and pick apart the tortuous knot of feelings that he had held close to his heart for eight months, but there wasn’t any point. Etien was dead. It was too late.

He dropped his head into his hands, pleading for the first time in his eight years as an ordained templar that the melody of lyrium in his blood would be quiet. But it was always there, humming discordantly behind the howl of the wind. Pulsing in time with his heartbeat as it pumped its corruption around his body. Infiltrating his dreams. He could never escape its siren call.

It had made them callous. No pure clarity of Chantry lyrium for them. Only aggression and paranoia and a lust for power they had named a desire for independence. A heady combination that had kept them all here, tied to the grand goal of crushing heresy. Who had they saved, and from what? What had they done aside from abusing the very people they were supposed to protect?

Maybe without the beguiling song in his ears, he would finally be able to think clearly. Maybe everything they had been required to do would make sense. Maybe there was meaning to explain the loss of his closest friend and someone who was, or had been, or could have been, more than just a friend. Maybe he was justified in his faith.

Maybe.

“I don’t want this,” he whispered, words barely audible above the gusts. “I need to be free.”

When Imshael had first arrived, none of them had been quite sure what to make of this soft man who had be given the right to command hardened templars. They had come to realise that he wasn’t soft. The smiling face hid a man who craved watching the agony that red lyrium could inflicted. He claimed that the experimentation was all to determine the best way to manage red lyrium, to cultivate his garden. After all, they were lacking the wealth of knowledge that the Order had on the safe use of normal lyrium.

The claim might have even been true. Far fewer templars fell to red lyrium than had done in the early days. But only the most oblivious people would fail to recognise that Imshael liked to play with the pain that could be inflicted, beyond what seemed necessary to understand it. Caliban and Beck had been subject to the worst of it, but there had been so many others. And they had turned a blind eye because they had been told that any price was worth their goals. A templar would give their life for the Order. Now even Nicolas was turning a blind eye to Imshael’s perversions, in the hopes that he could be freed of red lyrium’s influence.

It had been surprisingly easy to make his way to the heart of the keep, for all that it lay beyond the restricted areas. The keep’s complement of officers had plummeted, causalities of Knight-Captain Fornier’s pitiful defence of the region. Those few who saw him simply assumed that his purposeful stride gave him leave to be there.

And for all that Nicolas had never visited this part of the keep, it was easy to work out the part to which Imshael had laid claim. Grand and littered with careful cultivated lyrium growths, the courtyard couldn’t have been more fitting.

Nicolas held for a moment in the courtyard’s entrance, caught by the pervasive hum. When he finally dragged his focus back to reality, he started. Imshael’s small black-clad figure stood right in front of him, a welcoming smile on his face.

“Knight-Templar Nicolas Agrican.” He spread his hands wide to take in the imposing vista behind him. “What brings you to my humble workshop?”

Nicolas blinked. “You know my name.”

Imshael clapped Nicolas on the arm. “Of course,” he replied cheerfully. “And I’m always more than happy to speak to you fine templars. You are such fascinating people.” Imshael strode to a cluster of chairs arrayed around a makeshift table and gestured Nicolas over. “Come, Nicolas. No need to stand on ceremony. Take a seat.” He pushed a handful of papers off the surface off the table. They fluttered to the icy ground like oversized snowflakes. “Please. Sit.”

For all the polite phrasing, something about the tone had Nicolas obeying as if it had been an order. He followed Imshael and cautiously took the proffered seat. He had never spoken with the man before. Knowing what he had done here, the carefree attitude made him uneasy. “I’m not here for a conversation, Lord Imshael,” he replied wearily.

Imshael rested his elbows on the table’s surface and planted his chin on a fist. Nicolas was used to eyes that gleamed red now, but despite the apparent normality of Imshael’s pale blue eyes, a few shades lighter than his own had once been, they seemed to glitter a little too brightly as he watched Nicolas sit down. “Straight to the heart of the matter. I respect someone who knows what they want.”

Nicolas shifted nervously in his seat. “I need your help.”

“How fortunate for you, Nicolas. I have helped many people in my time,” Imshael declared. He leaned forwards conspiratorially and gave Nicolas an apologetic smile. “But before we can discuss your problem, I have a question of my own to ask. Are you willing to pay the price I ask?”

Nicolas slumped. Of course there was a price. But what more could Imshael ask that hadn’t been taken already. He firmed his shoulders and nodded. “No price is too high.”

Imshael’s smile widened. “I am so glad to hear that. So few people show such dedication.” He patted Nicolas’ hand. “So. Tell me what I can do for you, Nicolas.”

Nicolas hauled in a deep breath and gathered up every scrap of courage he could find. “Red lyrium. I—” His heart was pounding as if he had been waging a pitched battle, but he forged ahead before he lost his nerve. “I heard you could— could remove red lyrium from us. Please. Take it out of me. Help me.”

Imshael raised an eyebrow. “Now that is a fascinating request. Not at all what I expected.”

Nicolas swallowed against a parched throat. “But is it possible? Can it be done?”

“Indeed it can. Easily,” he replied airily. “It would be a terrible shame given the effort that has gone into you all, but it’s as simple as plucking a weed from this fabulous garden we have cultivated here.”

“It’s that simple?” Nicolas breathed, heart pounding.

Imshael shook his head. He didn’t look apologetic so much as pleased. “Not quite. A price, remember.”

“I remember,” he responded wearily.

“Indeed. A price. You see, unlike a weed, you and the red lyrium in you are far too valuable to simply discard.” His smile widened. It seemed a little too hungry for Nicolas’ liking. They said Imshael was a demon. But they knew he enjoyed inflicting pain. “Nothing in life is free, my dear Nicolas. You cannot simply leave.”

“I should say that I don’t intend to desert,” Nicolas said quickly. “I just— I need to be free of,” he gestured helplessly, “whatever it has done to my mind. I need my old self back.”

When the Inquisition came, he intended to fight until his last breath. But he wanted it to be for the right reasons.

“No no no,” Imshael replied with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Desertion is a matter to concern your Knight-Captain Fornier, not me.”

“Then I’m not sure I understand, Lord Imshael.”

“Allow me to explain. Remove your gauntlets,” he ordered.

Nicolas did so cautiously, then flinched as Imshael clasped his hands. Despite the unnatural chill of the air, they were nearly as heated as Nicolas’. The skin of his palms was so smooth as to almost be slick. It was an unpleasant sensation against Nicolas’ roughly calloused hands. With a start, Nicolas realised that Imshael never wore gloves. Any normal person would have lost fingers to the persistent cold, and Imshael didn’t have red lyrium’s heat to sustain him.

“Imagine for a moment that red lyrium were a living thing. A plant, in a garden.” Nicolas felt uncomfortably naked as Imshael looked him in the eye, despite layers of plate and chainmail to keep him protected. “You’ve all heard the analogy. The challenge is that red lyrium is a difficult substance to cultivate without allowing it to run rampant. Hence some of the early difficulties I hear some of your fellows had, and the unfortunate necessity of some of my experiments.” He shook his head with exaggerated sympathy. “A terrible thing that. But I have been told you took to it especially well. Despite being an early adopter, you have managed to incorporate it into yourself remarkably well. Such ability is valuable.”

Nicolas wished he could pull his hands away from Imshael’s slick grip, but it was incredibly tight given how soft he looked. “I didn’t do anything other than take the rations I was given.”

“You did far more than that. You take just enough to keep it under control.”

“Not too fast. Not too slow,” Nicolas murmured.

Imshael smiled proudly. “Precisely. You paid attention. In a man such as you, it is easy to direct the change.” Nicolas flinched as a smooth thumb traced the knuckles of one hand. The sharp shards of pain in the joints flared up in the wake of the unwelcome caress. “You have a notable strength of will, my dear Nicolas. Not the best I have seen. There has been some unrestricted growth in your hand here. But valuable nonetheless. Even given the care I have taken to nurture this garden, there are losses. Some of your fellows must be taken directly under my wing, as it were. You could achieve great things if I were allowed to do the same.”

Nicolas tried and failed to tug his hands away from the impossibly hard grip. “Absolutely not. I want it gone.”

“Regrettable,” Imshael replied lightly. He didn’t even seem to notice Nicolas’ attempt to free his hands. “Onto the deal, then. As I said, such strength of will is rare. I cannot simply relinquish it. Much as I hate to hurt you so, you templars are worth far less without red lyrium. What would one such valuable life be worth to me?” He cocked his head and waited. The wan sunshine caught his eyes with another too-bright glitter.

“I don’t have money,” Nicolas protested. “Unless you want my sword and armour, I have nothing of value.”

“Material wealth isn’t what I’m after. I prefer something a little more … interesting, shall we say.” He let out a contemplative hum. “So. The loss of one red lyrium-strengthened templar. Faithful. Dedicated. What value might that have? Ten lives, perhaps.” He nodded crisply as Nicolas’ eyes widened. “That seems fair.”

Nicolas’ recoil was brought to a sharp halt as Imshael tugged him forwards again. Imshael was surely only human. It should have been impossible for him to resist the unnatural strength granted by red lyrium.

“You can’t be serious,” he snapped. “If you can’t do it, you could simply say so.”

The smile faded away to a steely hardness. “It can be done, and I assure you that I am quite serious, Nicolas. The price has been named. This is the deal I offer.” He flattened Nicolas’ hands beneath his on the table, keeping him in place. “Five templars chosen by you to craft others to replace you. Five non-templars, seeded by your hand to grow the lyrium necessary for the change. Ten lives for yours, or you submit to red lyrium.”

“This is a sick joke,” he snapped. “I am a templar. You can’t expect me to even consider sacrificing others to save myself.”

“This is hardly a novel idea to you,” Imshael replied dismissively. “I know you understand what we’re doing here.”

Nicolas flinched again. They hadn’t had a choice. “We serve the Maker,” he retorted. “I have faith that there is some meaning to our actions.”

“Ah. Therein lies my second stipulation. If you want my help, you will acknowledge the truth you’ve been hiding from.” He gave Nicolas a wolfish smile and lowered his voice to a sibilant whisper. “There is no greater good. The only thing you’ve been serving is the base drive to ensure your own survival. You are selfish, Nicolas, like all mortals. Driven to pursue your own desires above anything else. All I’m asking is for you to embrace that knowledge. Then you can be free.”

“No,” he reiterated curtly. “I don’t believe that. I vowed to serve the Maker, not myself.”

Imshael laughed lightly. “It’s far from the first time I’ve heard that claim. You don’t wish to reconsider? All I’m asking is for you to accept your true nature.”

“It’s not. I dedicated my life to serve.” He tried to pull his hands away, feeling sick to his stomach. It wasn’t true. Maybe for some, but not for him. “I won’t reconsider.”

“No? You strike a hard bargain, Nicolas. Perhaps I can offer you something more palatable. Two lives, or submission.” He leaned forwards until his face was only inches away. Those glittering eyes seemed to take up his entire view. Had he thought they were pale? Now they were pools of blue so deep they were almost purple. Nicolas felt a sickening lurch, as if a hand had reached into his skull. “I can even propose one of those two for you. There is a name that rings loudly in your mind. Etien. You wish you had listened to him. Now he’s dead. His body is rotting in the snow outside the Tower of Bone, because you were afraid.”

Nicolas’ heart stopped. His resolve shattered as the gaping pit in his stomach yawned as wide as the abyss. How could he know? How could he _possibly_ know?

Imshael paused for a moment, drinking in Nicolas’ anguish. He couldn’t look away from those midnight blue eyes. His next words were quiet, but each one rang crystal clear in Nicolas’ mind. “I can name the person who killed him, Nicolas. I can name Etien’s murderer.”

“Maker,” Nicolas whispered. “I don’t —” he gulped and started again. “How could you possibly know any of that?”

“It is irrelevant, my dear Nicolas.” His smile grew unpleasantly wide. “Justice and freedom from red lyrium could be yours. Simply agree. ”

Nicolas felt as if he had been ripped in two. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, but he couldn’t marshal his thoughts into anything more than aching grief.

Imshael finally released Nicolas’ hands. They dropped bonelessly onto the table. “Dear Etien,” he continued thoughtfully. “Who would have given his life for yours, as you would have given your life for his. Eight years he remained faithful to your memory, without even a vow to hold him accountable.” He patted Nicolas’s cheek. “They didn’t even give his body its proper final rites, you know? They don’t think templars on red lyrium are even human any more. They think you’re unworthy of rest by your Maker’s side. Etien will rot in the snow, if the red lyrium hasn’t already consumed his corpse.” He leaned back with a satisfied smile and spread his arms wide. “There. Now you need only decide whether the life of an Inquisition heretic — a murderer, no less — and one other has more value than yours. Can I suggest Cartier? You don’t seem to especially like him.”

“Merciful Maker,” Nicolas whispered. “I—”

He couldn’t think. All he could imagine was a body rotting in the snow, never to receive a proper cremation, never to rest by the Maker’s side. Or worse, a body desecrated by growths of red lyrium.

The smile turned ugly. “You are easy to read, Nicolas. You dream you might have deserted the Order for him?” He shook his head in a curt negation. “You wouldn’t have done it. Your weakness is that you’re not willing to think for yourself. I‘m offering you a choice, a chance to prove that you are the master of your own fate.”

He needed time to clear his head. Scattered thoughts surged up around the images of death. A price that wasn’t a price. Justice or revenge. Sacrifice two lives to regain his own. It was selfish. It shouldn’t have been something he could even consider. He ought to refuse. He was a templar. He served something more than his own desires.

“I need—” he swallowed. He was so thirsty all the time. “I need to think.”

“You wish to consider the deal, then? Excellent.” He snatched up Nicolas’ hand and shook it before Nicolas could react. “Two lives for yours, or you submit to red lyrium.”

“Maker preserve me. No!” Nicolas blurted out. The fog cleared from his mind as a surge of horror set his heart racing. He shouldn’t have even suggested that he would consider the deal. It was utterly wrong. “I didn’t mean—”

“You are bound to consider the deal now, Nicolas,” Imshael cut in sternly. “There is red lyrium crystallising in your dominant hand. Who is to say your situation won’t worsen quite suddenly? I wouldn’t renege if I were you.”

Nicolas closed his eyes to cut off the glittering triumph in Imshael’s gaze. Words couldn’t bind him like that. Surely.

“Go, Nicolas. Take your time.” Nicolas didn’t need to have open eyes to recognise the smugly satisfied tone. “But not too long.”

A sudden torrent of rage roared through him into him, washing away the horror and anguish. Imshael was toying with his feelings. Maker knew how he knew about Etien, but whatever feelings he might have had, they couldn't be used against him. Passive acceptance had led to this intolerable situation in the first place. He wanted red lyrium gone, but he would use it when he had it.

His eyes snapped open. He surged up from his chair, toppling it behind him. Imshael’s startled look triggered a wave of exultant satisfaction. He was indulging the aggression rather than suppressing it as he had fought to do for months. It certainly felt good.

“No! I don’t need to think. You. Knight-Captain Fornier. All the other officers. You know what you’ve done to us. You know the song singing to us every blighted minute of the day. Sometimes I can barely hear myself think. You play on the paranoia you have given us and you use it to control us. I refuse to be manipulated,” he hissed. “I want it gone, but you can take your deal to the void. No more lives will be stolen because of me, or because of you.”

Imshael slid out of his chair and darted backwards. “I’m a little surprised, Nicolas, I must admit. I thought your control quite admirable before now.”

He retreated further away as Nicolas drew his sword and reached for the glorious crackling power in his blood. Whoever or whatever Imshael was, a red lyrium smite driven by enough concentrated willpower could kill. Imshael’s oily confidence faltered.

Nicolas focused his anger on the retreating figure and drew on lyrium.

The air cracked and a bright flash briefly outshone the weak sunlight. The jagged lyrium crystals dotted about the hall resonated discordantly, triumphantly.

A heavy weight slammed into his back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm genuinely surprised at how long this got, considering it was intended to be a shortish story...


	16. Death of a Red Templar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Nicolas faces a rather brutal ending.

Nicolas wasn’t quite sure what had hit him, but he felt certain that the only harder impact would have been if he had fallen off the top of the Ghislain Circle’s tower. He shot to his feet — wincing as scrapes and what might have been a broken rib or ten made themselves known — and snapped about.

There was a hunched horror facing him, all sharp angled planes of templar armour and long crystal spines. Skin as grey as ash and a pair of blazing red eyes.

And… oh Maker. He recognised the templar. He recognised _her_. His heart thundered in his chest. He refused to acknowledge what he was seeing. Her features were twisted in an awful grimace of pain and rage, but it was Sybelle. Even twisted and warped by lyrium, even with her greying skin bulging and leaking the light of the parasitic red lyrium in her, it was Sybelle.

He froze, sword drooping in a trembling hand. “Sybelle,” he gasped. “Merciful Maker, what happened to you?”

He stumbled backwards with a gasp and reluctantly raised his sword again as she advanced on him. She didn’t even seem to recognise him.

A delighted laugh sent a cold shiver down Nicolas’ spine. Imshael’s silken tones seemed to emanate from right behind him, as if he were whispering in Nicolas’ ear. “Poor, poor Sybelle. I’m afraid life can be insufferably cruel at times.”

He jerked around to the source of the voice. “Impossible,” he protested. “You should be dead. What have you done to Sybelle?”

Imshael brushed a speck of dust off his fur mantle. His smile was all unnaturally white teeth. Suddenly he didn’t seem anything like the soft noble he resembled. “It was an impressive effort, but it takes more than that to kill me, my dear Nicolas.”

A steel grip began to crush his arm through the chainmail. Nicolas attempted to shrug it away. When it didn’t move, he grabbed and threw as they had been trained. There was the crunch of lyrium and metal. An angry shriek rang from the crystal festooning the courtyard.

Nicolas backed away further, retreating from Sybelle and Imshael as they advanced on him.

“Sybelle, please listen to me.” He backed up a stair, and then up another, free hand steadying himself on the bannister. How could Maker have allowed this to happen? She didn’t deserve this. She had recognised the corruption long before he had. “It’s me. Nicolas.”

And still nothing. Only the angry glare of pain-filled crimson eyes and the ringing clash of a lyrium spine scraping stone.

Imshael spread his hands wide as if offering to embrace Nicolas. "There’s nowhere left for you to go, my dear Nicolas.”

Nicolas glanced over his shoulders and briefly closed his eyes in regret. Imshael was right. He had been herded onto a small balcony with nothing but a flagpole for cover. A Templar Order pennant whipped in the angry breeze above him, snapping like the crack of a whip.

In a futile last effort, he set his sword at his feet and raised his hands. “Please stop!” he shouted desperately. Not even the barest spark of acknowledgement. Perhaps that vitriol of their final conversation had been as genuine as he feared. “I’m sorry, Sybelle! Forgive me!”

Imshael gave a forlorn shake of his head. “I’m afraid it’s too late for that. I would forget that she was ever your friend if I were you.”

“Void take you,” Nicolas cursed helplessly as he scooped his sword back up again and dropped into a proper fighting stance. “Please don’t make me do this, Sybelle. Maker. Andraste. Please.”

The pleading prayer fell on indifferent ears. Imshael’s cruel smile widened. And even now, with Etien gone, with Sybelle’s mind stolen and her tortured body bearing down on him, there was nothing but the dry burn of his harsh breathing in his throat and the ever-present lyrium song. They were dead, or lost, and red lyrium wouldn’t let him care. It took everything.

At a brusque nod from Imshael, Sybelle leapt forwards with coiled animal grace. She was fast. Too fast for something human. Faster even than any normal templar on red lyrium. A crystal spine as long and deadly as a spear grazed over his armour with a tortured shriek. Another whistled through the air and barely missed his head as he ducked away.

And even then, Nicolas held back, desperately resisting the frenzied beat of red lyrium in his ears as it urged him to fight. To kill.

He whipped his sword around in an elegant arc, aiming for a blow that would cripple without maiming or killing. Red lyrium might have strengthened her, boosted her speed and reflexes, but the growths had torn holes in the smooth protection of armour. There were gaps that could be exploited now, if he could only maintain control.

Only there was no control from Sybelle. The unrestrained rage she had demonstrated in practice bouts was relentless. She was utterly silent as she attacked. All he could heard from her was uneven breaths whistling past lips parted in an inaudible snarl. She didn’t even bothering to counter him. She simply used brute force to push him back as she threw one heavy blow after another.

The uncontrolled aggression left countless gaps for a killing stroke. All strength, no finesse or consideration. A final piece of evidence to show that the mind behind those eyes was all but gone. Burned away. There was nothing to reason with. Maker forgive him, but he had no choice.

His blade whipped out and withdrew coated with a gleaming sheen of lurid red blood so tainted with lyrium there was barely anything natural left to it.

She didn’t feel the pain of the injury, but then he barely did either. The disturbing grate of bone in his chest confirmed that ribs were broken. For all that he had grown sick of red lyrium’s influence over him, without it, that injury would have floored him. Perhaps killed him. In the general wash of red lyrium’s pain, it was hard to tell what was life-threatening. One lung seemed to be struggling to properly fill with air, but the lyrium granted him strength to supplement his body’s flagging reserves.

He dodged another brutal blow that left a gaping hole in her already non-existent defences. Instinct had him drive his sword up, past the lyrium spines, past the flailing arm. The point of his sword grazed chainmail, darted towards a ragged hole in her armour. He gritted his teeth in something like a smile.

It was the kind of cruel and brutally efficient move that their instructors encouraged to finish a fight with the minimum of effort and as quickly as possible. No room for elegance or false honour in the combat skills of a templar. It would have made an appallingly gory mess, ripping open her gut and savaging exposed internal organs. Even with red lyrium to bolster her, it would have been lethal.

It would kill her.

It was still Sybelle. She might still be somewhere in there, behind the pain and the rage. A fellow templar. His oldest friend. Closer than the siblings he had never met. They had confided in each other. Gone to each other for advice. If he cast back to his very earliest memories, it was their friendship he recalled, not the parents he hadn’t seen in over twenty years. Him and Sybelle and Etien.

He stopped short, blade a hairsbreadth from breaking skin. He couldn’t do it. He had killed before, but he was more than just a killer. Lyrium couldn’t do this to him. He couldn’t kill her. Not without losing what little part of himself he could still consider uncorrupted.

And in that moment, Nicolas acknowledged that he had lost. He could have been the finest swordsman in Thedas, but even then, he would have lost. Sybelle — or the lyrium shell that had once been her — had no such qualms.

Her shoulder slammed into him as he wavered. Sharp crystalline edges tore cloth and screeched over his brestplate. The edge of his blade snagged on a jagged edge of her armour and was wrenched out of his grip. Nicolas was slammed into the flagpole with an unpleasant crunch. The scrape of his broken ribs was a sudden stab of sharp white agony rising above the background buzz in his nerves.

Nicolas drew in a painful breath against the screaming pain in his ribs. Accept the fate the Maker had given. Even if that fate was death. At least he had tried in his final moments to regain the righteous path.

“Hold him,” Imshael said lightly.

Sybelle lowered a glittering crystal arm that had been poised to run him through. Nicolas slumped in boundless relief. She swept around him, and this time Nicolas couldn’t slip out of the grasp she clamped around his shoulders. If he moved too much, the hold she had placed on him might well break both his arms.

Imshael picked up Nicolas’ sword and inspected it with a dubious sniff. “All that unnecessary aggression,” he sighed.

“You’re a madman,” Nicolas growled. “Void take you for what you’ve done to Sybelle.”

“I’ll try not to be too insulted, my dear Nicolas.” He casually tossed the sword to one side with a clatter that would have dulled the keen edge. “You know, lyrium makes you templars rather tedious. It’s as if you’re just a drab hole pretending to be a person. Rather baffling why you choose to do it. Even if your minds can be found, they’re rather lacking in excitement. Dull. But red lyrium… red lyrium amplifies. Put in the effort to infiltrate that hole you make of yourselves and—” he closed his eyes and shivered, “there’s nothing quite like it.”

“What in the Maker’s name are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about lyrium, Nicolas. Lyrium and all its fascinating secrets.” He strolled closer, hands stuffed in his pockets and leaned close enough to whisper in Nicolas’ ear. “You did ask what I did to Sybelle. Would you really like to know?”

Imshael didn’t bother to wait for an answer, darting away before Nicolas could jerk his head back and break his nose. “The tolerance that you templars have to lyrium provided some quite fascinating challenges for me,” he commented, a small smile crossing his face at Nicolas failed attempt. “The way you templars react to red lyrium is really quite unique. But simply feed you more and it overcomes your resistance. You fall as quickly as any non-templar. On the other hand, leave you to your own devices and the physical changes are too slow to be efficient.”

He began to pace. Nicolas craned his neck as Imshael moved around behind him. “Why bother telling me?” He resisted the temptation to pull away from Sybelle’s tight grip, much as he was desperate to do so. “I’m even less interested in having a conversation now than I was before. If you intend to kill me for refusing to deal, then do it.”

“Ah, but I don’t intend to kill you, Nicolas. You’re far too interesting to waste. ” Imshael gave Nicolas a nasty smile. “Allow me to answer your question. You’ll see the relevance soon enough.”

Nicolas’ blood ran cold at the matter-of-fact statement as Imshael resumed his pacing. “How then, do we effectively hone the strength that you templars can draw from lyrium? It took trial and error, but thanks to the forbearance of your superiors, I was able to find two particularly effective methods.” He stopped in front of Nicolas and gave him a callous smile. “Deprive a templar of lyrium long enough for withdrawal to set in. Then provide it to them again.” He stopped a moment and watched as Nicolas shuddered in visceral fear. “Repeat the process. Force them to endure withdrawal time and time and time again, and they cannot help but submit ever so briefly to red lyrium each time it is returned to them, allowing it to consume a little more of their bodies — stably, mind you, so that they don’t end up like your Knight-Lieutenant Erasmus. It is a drawn out process, but it leads to fabulous results like Caliban and Beck. I’m under the impression it’s rather agonising, especially given how quickly and severely red lyrium withdrawal sets in, and it does break the mind eventually. But you templars do seem to be willing to pay any price.”

 _Have you ever been through withdrawal,_ Etien had asked. It was used as a punishment in severe cases. Every one of them had a deep-rooted fear of being deprived of lyrium for more than a handful of days. To do so countless times until their barriers were irreparably shattered was horrific to even contemplate.

He drew to a halt in front of Nicolas, expression serenely peaceful. If he recognised that he had just described the most horrific thing one could do to a templar, it didn’t show.

But it hadn’t just been him. Knight-Captain Fornier had known and done nothing to stop it. It was his right to impose lyrium deprivation as a penalty, but he had never been callous about the decision, and this was very different to a simple misdemeanour. It was impossible to believe that he could have been so indifferent.

“Maker,” Nicolas murmured. “How could anyone have accepted this?”

“‘We do what must be done’,” Imshael quoted in a voice eerily similar to Knight-Captain Fornier’s. “Isn’t that the Templar way?”

Nicolas shuddered. “Not like this…”

“I’m afraid it was exactly like that. It’s rather a shame you weren’t around to hear him justify each successive decision. And as much as he respected the outcome, he recognised the need for another, faster option. Less elegant and not quite as stable, but it works. I prefer the first, but Fornier demanded a rapid reinforcement of his forces, given the Inquisition’s arrival.”

Imshael nodded to Sybelle. Blinding pain streaked through Nicolas like a bolt of mage-lightning. He crumpled sideways to the floor, suddenly completely unable to bear his own weight. When his vision cleared from the white haze of agony, he stared wide-eyed at a leg that bent the wrong way. He gaped, too shocked to understand.

He saw the second kick coming at his undamaged leg and could do nothing to stop it. His agonised scream drew echoing chimes from the outcroppings of red lyrium in the hall beyond. He choked it off into a thin whimper, breath coming in short pants. He didn’t dare contemplate the damage.

Imshael continued as if the brutal snapping of bone meant nothing to him. “Red lyrium mends damage, and when it does, its hold is a little tighter. But as templars, you are used to incorporating lyrium in your bodies and so you support its growth rather than allowing it to overtake you as it has done those souls in the quarry. Give you a little more lyrium after each break or wound, and well…” he smiled across at Sybelle, eyes tracing the crystal growths erupting from her limbs. “I’m sure your friend Sybelle could explain it better. Unfortunately, she no longer has the capacity to do so.”

“What— why?...” Nicolas demanded haltingly.

Maker. How it  _hurt_.

He squeezed his eyes shut. Crippled. There were no mage healers here. Maker knew if they could even have helped with this much lyrium in him. He was crippled.

His eyes snapped open again as he heard Imshael crouch down beside him. He tried to drag himself away and shrieked again as a broken bone tore through skin and muscle.

"You can still change your mind. Two lives for yours. Embrace the inherent selfish desires of mortality.”

“I will not agree to the deal!” Nicolas snapped, desperately hunting for some scrap of red lyrium’s strength to help him pull away. Now, when he truly needed its power, it was as elusive as trying to capture a breeze. 

"We shook on it, Nicolas. Choose."

Between betraying everything, and red lyrium, he could only have one choice. He was bound to it forever. "I... I. There is no choice. Red lyrium. I choose red lyrium."

“A shame,” Imshael responded evenly

He smirked suddenly and tugged at the shard of lyrium on its chain about Nicolas’ neck. Metal links sprayed in every direction. He hefted the shard in a bare hand and admired its bloody glow. No mage could touch raw lyrium with their bare skin without death. No one who wasn’t a templar could endure direct contact or even its proximity without the rapid onset of madness. Yet here he was, holding it, living with it all around him.

“Fascinating, my dear Nicolas.” Imshael shook his head wonderingly. “After all your insistence about how much you wished to be free. The choices that mortals make can be truly fascinating.”

Nicolas froze as Imshael rested the point of the shard over his heart. Red lyrium had been proven to be impossibly sharp. It would pierce his breastplate like paper.

“That wasn’t the deal,” he gasped. The agony in his legs seemed suddenly inconsequential. With red lyrium embedded beneath his skin, the change would be accelerated beyond all hope of control. Imshael would be able to craft it as he willed, precisely as he had wanted in the first instance.

“I think you’ll find that it was,” Imshael scolded him tetchily. “Two lives, or you submit to red lyrium. I can hardly be at fault for you failing to ascertain precisely what submission meant."

Nicolas slumped in relief as Imshael withdrew the shard. He tapped it to his lips in thought. “But you know, even though you tried to kill me, I think I rather like you Nicolas. I’m willing to offer another deal. Submit to red lyrium, or submit to me. Give your body to red lyrium and keep your mind for as long as you can manage. A strong-willed young man like you might do well. Or give your mind to me and keep your body. Under my control, you could resist red lyrium’s consumption of your body for your entire natural life. You would have lost your mind to lyrium eventually anyway.”

“Maker above. What kind of a choice is that?”

“It’s true that I enjoy more subtlety given the time, but sadly the most primal choices are often the most effective.”

Imshael knelt in front of Nicolas and—

— _a pleasantly cool breeze raised a prickle of goosebumps across Nicolas’ skin. He couldn’t remember the last time when he hadn’t felt as if he were burning alive._

_And then the confusing thought was gone._

_Nicolas could see a slice of purpling sky scattered with fat white clouds through the open half of the library’s casement window. Andraste smiled serenely at him from the other half. Panels of stained glass cast patches of rich colour across the pages of the open book in front of him. A dry and painfully impenetrable text on the Circles of Magi by a Knight-Commander hundreds of years gone, the words blurred before his eyes as he looked away._

_Shelves bowed under the weight of books stretched away to either side, filling the air with the smell of old parchment and the beeswax used to keep the leather spines supple. The monastery library_ _’s calm was broken only by sporadic bursts of smothered laughter from the younger recruits._

_His hand rested comfortably in the small of a muscled back, and a warm length of thigh pressed against his underneath the table. Nicolas’ heart leapt and a delighted smile twitched his lips. Etien. He was here. Alive and safe and healthy. He was close and they were still together._

“ _Look at you both,” Sybelle sighed. “You’re so … happy. It’s irritating.”_

_Etien glanced up from his own text and looked over at Nicolas. Simple contentment crinkled the corners of pale green eyes clear as a mountain pool._

“ _Should we apologise?” he leaned in and murmured, breath whispering over Nicolas’ cheek._

“ _After how much she criticised us for taking so long?” Nicolas replied dryly. His hand curved around Etien’s waist, pulling him closer still. He hadn’t yet been brave enough to commit to the idea of taking a vow of celibacy on their initiation. There was time yet. “Of course not.”_

_Etien’s growing smile matched the one blossoming on Nicolas’ lips. He laughed quietly. “I didn’t think so.”_

_Sybelle gave a grunt that was half feigned irritation and half tolerant amusement. Etien leaned in close and—_

—and then the vision, memory, whatever it had been, was gone. Nicolas gasped as reality surged back to him. Red lyrium’s scorching heat overtook his mind again, lighting every nerve with familiar pain. Etien was dead and Sybelle was there at Imshael’s shoulder, eyes empty, figure deformed and misshapen by red lyrium. An empty shell.

“You could have what you threw away, Nicolas,” Imshael whispered soothingly. “I can give you a chance to redo the choices you made. Simply submit.”

“Oh, Maker,” he moaned. His hand convulsed, desperate for his sword. Blood mages could play with the mind this way, but he would have felt its coppery tang in the air. Nothing human could resist red lyrium the way Imshael did. The rumours had been right. He had never faced something like this, but all the signs were there. “Demon. Desire demon. No. I refuse.”

Irritation twisted Imshael’s mild expression into an ugly mask. “I cannot understand this fixation humanity has on naming us demons. Rage. Despair. Desire. You give us these names as if we’re to blame for your own flaws.” He grunted in disgust and leaned away. “Choice spirit,” he snapped, enunciating each word as if speaking to a child. “I am a Choice spirit.”

Nicolas had no time to react as Imshael flipped the lyrium shard about and placed the point back over his heart. He groaned with pain as it slid through his breastplate like paper, piercing through flesh and scraping bone to graze his heart. It seemed impossible that something could hurt more than broken bones, but this certainly did. Fiery tendrils of agony tightened into a vice-like grip about his chest with a deep pulsating throb. The lyrium song grew to an unbearable roar in his ears.

Imshael settled back on his heels, daintily wiping a smear of faintly glowing blood on Nicolas’ tabard. “And you made your choice.”

Nicolas desperately tried to drag in enough breath to say something, anything. But his breath wheezed in a chest that had become painfully tight. Every breath was agony. He managed a whimper as his hand reached up for the protruding shard of lyrium before flopping back down again.

Imshael beckoned Sybelle forwards. “Leave him to stew in one of the cells for a few hours. Some pain will do him good.” He shook his head regretfully and patted Nicolas on the cheek. “Such a waste. You had so much potential, but I suppose we make do with—”

A rolling boom echoed through the air. Imshael shot to his feet, staring out towards the ruined hall.

Despite the agony radiating out from his chest, Nicolas managed a husky laugh at Imshael’s sudden look of dismay. Already he could recognise a crystalline quality to the pained sound.

Distantly, he could make out the noise of battle. There was at least one mage out there, somewhere. If it weren’t for the incessant roar, he supposed he might even feel the distant discordant ripples of templars using their abilities. The Inquisition hadn’t waited to storm the keep as Knight-Captain Fornier had expected. They must have visited the quarry. Maybe they were heretics. It didn’t matter. The templars of Suledin Keep were allied with mages and demons. The things they had done could hardly be much worse than the Inquisition’s supposed heresies.

He reached a shaking hand up to shard of lyrium. This time he succeeded in clasping it and pulled it out with a hoarse gasp. The pain remained the same throbbing agony. There was barely any blood on the smooth facets. Red lyrium had already propagated out from the impact point, sealing the wound. It was what gave them such strength. It was what would kill them, sooner or later. For him, far far sooner. He tossed the shard to one side. The ringing clatter resonated in his mind. Sybelle watched it skitter across the flagstones with something like hunger. It was too late to prevent the damage done, but it felt good to finally throw it away.

“I hope- hope they k-kill you, demon,” he gasped breathlessly.

“Choice spir-! never mind.” Imshael sniffed. “That was rather petty of you, Nicolas, I must admit.”

Nicolas sprawled back on the uneven stone floor. His chest convulsed painfully as he choked out helpless laughter. The void waited, but at least he would no longer have to face what he had done and failed to do. “L-leave me to - to die in peace,” he managed to say.

“Oh, you won’t die if I can help it.” Imshael cast a final possessive look at Nicolas where he lay, wheezing through the spreading stiffness in his chest. “This shouldn’t take long. Best to give the lyrium a little time to take root anyway.” A patently false look of sympathy crossed his face. “Not to worry, the lyrium will mend those broken bones in no time. The trick is to encourage it to stop short of consuming the whole body.” He turned on his heel and began to walk away. The hurried pace belied his casual tone. “Come, Ser Sybelle.”

Nicolas slumped back with a grunt of pain, not bothering to watch Imshael leave. His vision was turning crimson at the edges.

He found himself wishing success on the Inquisition’s assault. Perhaps a painful death was better than continue their headlong rush into irredeemable corruption.

-

Nicolas drifted on the very edge of unconsciousness. The battle had been long and drawn out. More forms of magic than he had cared to count had hummed in the air. Staying alert and — more importantly — coherent was becoming next to impossible. Maker knew if he had already lost his mind and only thought he was still sane.

The crimson haze had almost completely masked his vision now. Even breathing was a monumental effort and unlike the almost comforting hum of pain to which he had become accustomed in the past months, this agony seemed to be getting worse. Slowly, but he had come to realise that he couldn’t actually feel his legs at all any more. It should probably have been more worrying than it was.

Clearly red lyrium was consuming him far faster than Imshael had expected. It was perversely satisfying to think that the demon might have made a mistake.

There was a sudden high pitched shriek and then shocking silence. Nicolas breathed out a short but deeply fervent prayer of gratitude. He wasn’t quite sure whether to laugh or cry. Was Imshael dead? Too late to slow the change he had forced on Nicolas, but if he was dead, they might finally be free.

He tried and failed to roll to one side to reach for his sword again. He was dying. That was blatantly obvious. But the Inquisition forces would stumble across him eventually. They might even put him out of his misery before red lyrium took him. But he didn’t want to die like this. To at least pretend he was still a real templar would have been nice.

But his sword was still too far away and he could barely move. He had placed faith in the wrong things. The redemption and meaning offered by that symbolic Sword of Mercy had been denied him. No absolution.

When he heard the sound of booted footsteps and sensed the lingering ozone smell of spent mana, he did his best to lever himself up onto his elbows to watch the small group approach. The Inquisition had taken Suledin Keep.

And they were oddly kind. Knight-Captain Fornier had called them so many things. Brutal. Heretical. Lacking in even a shred of mercy for the templars they encountered.

They had killed his friends. Murdered Etien. Sybelle too, most likely. Everyone he knew was dead by their hands. But they were kind. Why?

They listened to him. And the Inquisitor — fade-tainted magic crackling fitfully in one gloved palm and playing tricks on Nicolas’ rapidly fading senses — had _apologised_ that the Inquisition could do nothing to help.

If only Nicolas could understand. Everything. Had he — had all the templars in the Emprise du Lion — been wrong? Had they been tricked? Maker forgive them for what they had done. Maker forgive them for what they had believed was necessary.

They had called the Inqusitor the Herald of Andraste too. A heresy, but maybe Andraste _was_ listening from somewhere beyond the Veil. With his breath a reed-thin whistle in a chest that barely moved, he told them what he could.

He couldn’t see anything now. The crimson filling his vision was rapidly darkening to black.

The pain was unrelieved agony. He was glad he couldn’t see. Didn’t want to see if lyrium had finally broken through his skin.

He couldn’t hear if they had said anything else to him behind the deafening roar of the lyrium song in his ears.

“Consent and live. Deny and be consumed,” he wheezed through gritted teeth. “But what he wanted… no… anything but that. I chose the red.”

No absolution to be found. But at least he had tried to do what was right. To keep faith in something more than his own survival.

Maker. It hurt. So much.

It didn’t mean much, but he had tried.

The song was shrieking. Beauty and agony together.

He needed rest.

It might not be by the Maker’s side.

But he needed

rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've somehow made it to this point, thanks for reading!


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